


i carry your heart with me

by aerospaces



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Adoption, Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Ilvermorny, M/M, Mentor/Protégé, Slow Burn, Uncle-Nephew Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-29
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-12-08 07:36:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 43,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11641944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aerospaces/pseuds/aerospaces
Summary: Credence is only ten years old when he is adopted into the Graves family. And life is never the same again.





	1. here is the root

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> For [moonpunched](https://moonpunched.tumblr.com/) who is worth late nights, sleepless days, and the most maddeningly melancholy soundtrack playing on loop. Happy Birthday ❤. I would not have written this or be posting this were it not for you. Thank you for being a darling and making my days much brighter. This is my first contribution in the fandom, I'm more inclined to write Colezra RPF but I thought I'd try my hand at it!

_i._

_here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud_  
_and the sky of the sky of a tree called life_

 

* * *

 

Credence is ten years old. He comes to live with the Graves after he wins the lottery in adoption. Or at least that’s how Carlotta says it, scrubbing Credence’s unruly hair down with a comb missing two teeth in front of the water-spotted mirror in the boy’s washroom. 

There are only two washrooms at the Orphanage, one for boys, while another is for girls. Fifty beds in total squeezed into three separate rooms parallel to each other, matchstick metal beds pushed side by side with hardly any breathing room in between. The mattresses are lumpy, the covers moth-ridden and thin, smelling of a musty closet. Still, Credence considers them the height of luxury. He has a cubbyhole with his name on it, where he can store a few of his things. He has clean clothes, comfortable shoes that actually fit him, an hour each day devoted solely for playing. The food, best of all, keeps him from going hungry: pumpkin soup and watery milk for lunch, and buttered rolls, if donations have been particularly generous. Sweet cakes dusty with confectioner’s sugar that leave his mouth feeling soft and his hands chalky with powder. 

The Orphanage is run on magic. It feels strange to say it, to think it, to believe that magic exists in a world alongside trains and factories and the unbendable laws of physics. That it courses through Credence’s veins like blood — a heritage, or a sickness passed on by his dead parents. A curse from the grave. His mother, his real mother, not Mary Lou, his Ma, had been born a witch. But Credence could not make objects move no matter how hard he wiggles his fingers, or thinks himself into a headache; he could not will anything into being, though, that, he’s been told, takes a great deal of skill and power to achieve, and not everyone is able to do it on the first try, or the second, sometimes even at all. The other children call him a _squib,_ and Carlotta says it’s a bad word meaning someone who can’t do magic, a freak. Credence doesn’t know what’s so bad about not being able to do magic when he’s never uttered a spell in his life. He’s used to doing things the regular way, by hand, on his own: folding laundry instead of charming them to do his bidding, hanging up the washing or making the bed, scrubbing blood stains from the collar of his shirt with cold water and vinegar instead of casting a cleaning charm. There are spells for these mundane tasks, for every little thing, even waking the dead. But he can’t, for the life of him, make a simple feather fly. 

This, of course, is not surprising. 

Credence has never been anything special, had no outward knack for anything except incurring the wrath of his Ma. He still dreams of that night: of waking up in the fire, and wetting himself in fright, running out in the street in his bedclothes, listening to his Ma’s shrieking from inside the Church, her screams echoing like the toll of a bell inside his ears. Standing there watching the Church go up in flames, while spectators stood thronged alongside him, like it was the most spectacular sight on earth, their eyes glassy in wonderment. _His sisters_ — by the time the fire department had arrived it had already been too late to save them, the Church had burnt to the ground, leaving only charred remains.

The woman, Tina, wearing a brown overcoat, had knelt in front of Credence later, wiping soot off his face with her bare hands as she cradled his cheeks and wiped his eyes. He was not even crying, too stunned to process the suddenness of death. “It’s all right, Credence. I’m a friend,” she said, even though he had never met her before. “My name is Tina Goldstein, and I’m here to take you somewhere safe.”

*

Every year, the Orphanage received a fairly hefty donation from the Graves of Upstate New York. What Credence knew about them: their wealth, and importance. They were part of the old world, distinguished by the accomplishments of their ancestors. Someone in their bloodline had been part of the Original Twelve, whatever that meant, and because of that, the Graves were fairly famous. There were three men in their line, brothers, but the first one was the one of most significance: Ulfius Graves who’d fought in a war of some kind and was now dabbling in politics. 

The Graves led the annual Charity Ball for the Orphans of New York, which was held every Christmas in a hotel in Manhattan. Everyone, all fifty children at the Orphanage, was made to participate, dressed in their Sunday best with their secondhand shoes buffed to a shine, their hair stiff with pomade. 

All fifty of them stood in excited worry in a corner of a very opulent room frosted with sparkling chandeliers and floating Christmas candles. They sang Christmas Carols all throughout the evening, their voices quavering on all of the high notes, none of them mentioning religion or the Lord — _when sleigh bells ring and choirs sing, and the children's faces shine —_ while the adults, dressed in fine robes and decked in expensive jewelry, paused in their conversation to coo and caw. 

The adults were important people, Credence knew, politicians, dignitaries, or else from wealthy families upstate with peculiar sounding names. The children were allowed to mingle, granted they were within the matron’s eye line and never strayed. They ate dinner at a separate table reserved solely for orphans, the evening’s guests, because it was important to make that distinction, roast turkey still shining with glaze and something called squab pie served with clotted cream on the side. There were gifts from charity donors: bags of school robes, and heavy boxes of toys, used spellbooks with the bindings still in tact for when some of the children started Ilvermorny — wizarding school — in the fall. A speech was made by the Orphanage Director, various points of which were punctuated by applause, laughter, and knowing looks. Next came Ulfius Graves, who announced he was running for Congress and had made the timely decision to adopt.

*

Carlotta is Credence’s age: tall, reedy, with a Brooklyn toughness to her. Her pearly white teeth made her brown skin stand out. She is Credence’s first friend at the Orphanage, his only friend. She sat with him during meals, and taught him spells she learned while she was still living in the streets, before she was rescued. They were simple enough spells, for cleaning and taking care of one’s self, but he could barely bring himself to say the words without stammering. They slid over his tongue, slippery as tea steam, and at night he practiced them over and over, stumbling over the syllables with his fingers poised in the air. Still: there was nothing. No sparks shooting out of his hand, not even a prickle in the back of his neck which Carlotta had said sometimes happened. He was ordinary, _a squib_. Even in this world where the laws of the land were governed by wild magic, he was an invert, strange. Ma had been right about his wrongness: he was a dull, stupid boy.He did not belong here. He did not belong anywhere. 

*

Carlotta teaches him: this is how you ask for more bread during supper, this is how to make yourself small when the matron is in one of her moods. She seemed to have all the answers, assuaging his fears of not being able to perform basic spells like some of the other children. 

When Credence learns he’s being adopted, he’s called into the director’s office to meet Ulfius Graves — a tall and imposing man with an abundance of rings in his left hand. He clutched a cane in the other, ivory with an elaborate derby handle in the shape of a griffin’s head. Ulfius stood by the window, with his back facing the door, and when Credence slipped inside the room with his head bowed, he turned and looked over his shoulder, his silver eyes passing through Credence before he turned his gaze back to the yard outside overrun with children. 

“Credence,” said the Director, Mr Ordos, his hands steepled on the desk. “I’d like to introduce you to Mr Graves.”

 

*

Nothing changes when Credence came to live with Ulfius Graves, at least not at first. Carlotta doesn’t cry when she bids Credence goodbye; instead she sits him in the washroom and washes his face with soap before combing out his hair. She tells him to hide his scars, to lie when he’s asked about how he’d gotten them, to never talk about the fire or the strange dream he kept on having. “They don’t want you damaged,” she says matter-of-factly, her fingers gentle in his hair. “He’ll want a son, not an orphan. Now keep your chin up and give us a smile, Credence. You’ve won the lottery! You’re free.”

But freedom, Credence knows, comes with a high price. Moses had led a hundred thousand people out of Egypt in a single night, slaves to the King, through fog and desert and across the Red Sea. Some of them, his Ma said, who did not have faith, died before they could reach the promised land. They were those who doubted God, the non-believers. Never mind that they did not ask to be saved, or to be born as slaves, or to not recognize salvation when they saw it. 

A trunk is sent to the orphanage, heavy with brass locks, the leather abraded and bearing the Graves family crest. Credence is expected to fill it with his belongings but he only has very few with him: a pair of shoes, a hat, and the long coat he’d grabbed the night of the fire, when he ran into the street in damp bedclothes to watch his Church burn. His last meal at the orphanage consists of dry bread and lentil soup. Carlotta touches his hand under the table. 

The matron accompanies him to the train station, hidden from no-majs by a concealment charm, and looking deceptively just like an ordinary train station: except — there were wayward owls flying about, chased by their harried owners, and a goblin manning the ticket booth, chewing on a piece of cigar. The station is built like a cathedral, with tall arches and smooth marble flooring, a mural painted on the ceiling moving with the ebb and flow of the weather outside. An ornate clock stood in the middle of the bustle, the numbers painted in Roman letters announcing the time. Credence gapes.

“You can’t _floo_ in because they haven’t cleared you yet,” the matron explains as they board the train and she buoys him forward in the direction of their carriage. “So now we must take the train.”

_Flooing_ , as Credence, understands it, as he’s only done it once, is supposed to cut their travel short. 

Taking the train will require more patience, more time that the matron doesn’t have; she’s a busy woman, her days filled with endless amount of paperwork and keeping stubborn children in line. 

Credence has never been aboard a train before, though he’s stood just outside the station to hand out flyers. The matron buys them sandwiches from the cart but he’s too nervous to eat, wringing his hands in his lap until the matron’s hand shoots up and halts him on the wrist. “Stop fidgeting,” she says, before giving him a pointed look under her half-moon spectacles. He angles his body toward the window instead. 

The train is slow, nudging unhurriedly from one station to another, ambling past rows of sleepy houses, crowded with sagging lines of washing, before the scenery gives way to fields and farms, and plowed chocolate-colored earth. With the window open a crack Credence can smell the greenness pervading the air, the rich woodsmoke fragrance of the countryside — nothing like the coal and burnt rubber scent of the city, which often made his sisters sick with a cough that never seemed to abate. 

The train pulls into the last station, whistling like a sonorous tea kettle announcing boiling point. Credence is hustled out of the carriage, and then onto the train platform, the matron’s steps brisk as she cuts through the aimless crowd like a sparrow, Credence hurrying after her with his heavy trunk thunking each time his trolley rolls over a crack in the flooring. 

When she stops abruptly, he almost barrels straight into her. She turns, then, to smooth the hair from her face and check her lipstick in a compact mirror, which she snaps shut the second she hears her name being called.

“Mallory Gerhardt,” says a melodious male voice, belonging to a bespoke man with an immaculate mustache and waring dark green robes. “How wonderful to see you! Is this the boy?”

They look to Credence simultaneously. 

Credence holds his head a bit higher, uncurling from his slump. “Yes,” the matron says, turning her back on him, seeming to soften at the sight of the man. “And Mr Graves?”

“He’s just about ready to meet him,” says the man, giving Credence another passing glance.

*

The Graves Estate sits surrounded by the Hudson River, an on island fifty miles north of New York City. The manor: fifteen rooms in total and built nearly a century previous, with large archways and an elaborate Victorian terrace made of mellow Yorkshire stone, dark slate roofs embellished with spired turrets. On the grounds surrounding: a huge secluded garden filled with fruit trees and smooth, well-tended lawns and a greenhouse cruelly overrun with holly. A manmade lake that glittered like a newly minted coin where two boats were moored, incongruous, on the dock. 

Mr Graves walks him through all of it, accompanied by a nervous house-elf named Tilly who stumbles after them as they take a tour of the grounds. He is brusque, but not unkind, possessing the air of someone who is quick to dismiss others, who has never lost an argument in his life, who is used to always having the upper hand. He’s never been married, preferring instead to keep to himself. Often Credence catches him reading in the parlor, standing instead of sitting, as if about to spring upon a new idea. He drinks wine after every meal, leaving glasses in the parlor faint with reddish dregs. 

He makes Credence nervous.

At dinnertime, when he can make it, Mr Graves asks Credence about the books he’s read. His room had been furnished with shelves of required reading, to accommodate the years of magical education he’s missed. He had a tutor too, several, actually, each one sent home for a myriad of reasons, lacking education, or bearing little pedigree, or else having said the wrong thing. 

Mr Graves is an impatient man and Credence often worries about not being quick enough to respond when Mr Graves speaks to him. He knows he should call him Father, that he owes Mr Graves this much. But somehow he can’t bring himself to say it, the word perpetually stuck in his throat, like a lodged stone, and Mr Graves doesn’t seem to notice he speaks only when spoken to. _Yes,_ or _no,_ and _please,_ and _thank you. May I be excused?_

He’s hardly home anyway, leaving the care of his charge to his house-elves and servants who all treat Credence with a kind of contemptuous care. “Please eat your food. I don’t want any trouble from Master.” They feared him, and the bell Mr Graves used to summon them on sight, that shrill ringing searing through the house like a grating scrape. 

Credence holds his breath each time Mr Graves picks up the bell, steeling his ears for the shouting that was to come. How difficult it was, he often lamented, to find competent help these days! To remember that he liked two sugars in his coffee, his eggs fried with onions and cheese, his bottle of Cinsault not moved from the nightstand! 

Credence often worried that he would suffer the same fate as the servants, sent packing and returned to the Orphanage once Mr Graves deemed him dull and uninteresting. So he did his best studying, poring over the moving books shelved in his room, reading all about the history of magic, and the first settlement of wizards in America, and a group of terrible people called scourers, preparing himself for the inevitable questioning at the end of each meal. Sometimes he impressed Mr Graves with his knowledge of magical history, especially if they concerned someone in the Graves line. Credence is quick to memorize names, dates, and places, who killed who, and which treaties were signed when and what they were for. 

But he still can’t do magic. Credence’s fear lay in that Mr Graves would start noticing and ask him to show him a spell he’s learned. The thought of owning a wand — witches and wizards got theirs before they started school — terrifies him, and he dreams sometimes of the night of the fire, the fresh sting of welts marring his back, the anger and frustration seeping out of his eyes and clenched fists, radiating warmth and covering all of him like a veil. His teeth aching with the pain of trying his best not to cry. It happened just like that: he was asleep, and then he was awake, fire licking up the walls of his room and choking him with smoke. Then Credence got up, slowly, like he was slogging through mud, lost in a daze. Often times he wondered if it he dreamt that he had walked out of the Church alive and unharmed. If he was still dreaming at all.

*

They put him in a room at the end of the hall, bigger than any of the rooms at the Orphanage, bigger than the Church. His room is his own small kingdom, with a window seat and a double dormer window looking out to the river, a protrusion of shelves lining the walls and a four poster bed fringed with long-hanging drapes. There is an elaborate walk-in closet filled with boxes owned by its previous occupant: moving childhood photographs of a young child, younger even than Credence, preening and waving at the camera, old clothes and crimson uniform robes smelling of undisturbed dust; a collection of accolades stuffed and poorly spellotaped in one box: _Quidditch House Cup 1905_ , the lettering so verdigrised with age Credence has a hard time reading it without squinting.

It takes him a minute to pace the whole of the room. Here, the floorboards do not sag under his footsteps, and the eaves do not whistle or moan at the barest hint of a breeze. The bed is always soft, and tea always replenished, kept hot by a warming charm cast by the servants. Credence touches objects like a child seeing everything for the first time, bursting with wonder and awe like a wineskin filling up at the sight of all that perplexed and bewildered him: the bowl of candied fruit left by the house-elves sitting on the nightstand, the tomes on the shelf with their embossed titles fading with time, the delicate carvings in the stone fireplace, curved asymmetrical designs full of detailed sweeps and flourishes like beautiful Spring leaves. 

He steps back to admire the coat of arms above the fireplace and peer into the inscription: _aut vincere aut mori,_ victory or death, his tutor had said, the words freighted with so much meaning the family lived and died by it. 

*

Credence reads. He devours books, at first because he knows he’ll be tested, asked about them at dinner, but soon enough he develops a love of reading. He spends afternoons in the library, when not buried to the ears in lessons, hunched in an armchair by the fire with his knees pulled up to his chest and a blanket draped over his lap, paging through leather bound volumes. There were all kinds of books in Mr Graves’ library, some no bigger than a hand, or missing several pages, with spines hanging loose and covers needing mending. What he loved most of all were adventure stories, peopled by heroes and knights riding winged horses, and powerful wizards with long thick beards offering sage advice. He loved heroism, in all its forms, the sword fights and duels to the death, sometimes atop a dizzying ravine. He sometimes pretended to be one of the characters, gripping his twig like a wand and reciting a spell summoning fire. Credence would play outside when he was allowed and point and shout with his twig held high, running himself ragged under the summer heat, sure he had imagined the current running up his arm and sending ripples over his skin, the shimmer in the air when he’d shouted _Confringo!_ The sun beat down on him like a hot cap, making the ground rise with waves of red dust. Still, he knew, it was nothing more than the heat.

Afterwards, Credence doesn’t remember much of the first weeks. He doesn’t do anything new, or go anywhere; nothing changes a speck. He has lessons after breakfast, takes short naps after lunch, and then has lessons again in the afternoon, in preparation for Ilvermorny though Credence tries not to think about it with a sense of impending doom. He reads when he can, plays when he can, talks to the house-elves and the servants who give him short, clipped responses, as if he were somehow slow, or stupid, or that his stay at the manor was a simply temporary affair and they’d be rid of him soon. He writes Carlotta a letter, but doesn’t know whom to ask so he could send it to the Orphanage by owlpost, which he understands is like regular post only wizards use owls instead of employing postmen. He thinks about his Church, about his mother, his sisters, sweet as cream, tucked in their beds. He wonders if Chastity and Modesty died screaming or asleep.

In July, shortly before Credence is due to receive his Ilvermorny letter, he is rousted from his nap in the library by a sound in the hallway. He slinks to the door, opening it just a crack, rubbing sleep from his crusty eyes. The servants are lugging a number of heavy-looking trunks up the staircase. Mr Pinkton, the footman, is giving the Tully a long list of meals to serve for tonight’s dinner to which she eagerly bobs her head. 

Later, Credence will understand what the commotion is about as he’s demoted to taking his dinner in his room, a tray of soup, baked potatoes and soft lamb, and a slice of rhubarb pie still warm from the oven. He’ll sneak out even when he isn’t meant to, tiptoeing down the staircase and pushing his face between the balustrades to eavesdrop on Mr Graves’ conversation with his guest. It’s rude, _but_. But nothing. Credence has always been a stubborn child. Ma had always said so. He knew, in his heart of hearts, that she was right, just like she had been right about his crookedness. 

They speak in hushed tones, the timbre of their voices almost similar, like music, though the stranger’s voice is tinged with a smoker’s rasp. The dinner guest sits with his back to Credence so Credence can only see his head, its neat sideways part, the sides shaved clean, flecked here and there with silver. And his hand, attached to a long arm covered in a grey sleeve, tapping an impatient rhythm on the tabletop, the pinky glinting with a signet ring. 

“All this for me?” says the guest, with an obvious scoff. He grasps his wine with the same hand and then takes a long luxurious pull. “Ulfius, you shouldn’t have.”

Mr Graves’ expression doesn’t change even as he spears food on his plate and pushes it into his mouth, pulling the tines free in one swift motion. This action, Credence recognises, only because it’s always made him nervous to be the recipient of such a look. He wonders how the man hasn’t shrunk yet, or recoiled in fear, or run out the door with his tail between his legs. 

“Only the best for my favourite brother, of course.”

“I’ve heard news,” says the guest abruptly.

“Oh?” says My Ulfius, his eyebrow raised. “You mean the boy?”

“You know you’re only shooting yourself in the foot.”

Mr Graves hums. “There could be some truth in that, but there’s no need to sound maudlin. The boy needed a home. And this house is deserving of the laughter of a child. It’s been years since there were little miscreants running about. Gareth used to—”

“This is no place to raise a child,” the man interrupts. 

“And yet it worked well enough for the three of us,” Mr Ulfius says, giving the man — Percival, his brother — a look. “And look at us now.” 

The man doesn’t speak for a moment. And then finally, after a long silence, he does: “Seraphina made me feel like I was the world’s utmost idiot for not realizing you won something today.” His voice is low, as if spoken in regret. “Please accept my belated congratulations, senator.”

“The elections are a long way off, Percival, though the polls have swayed considerably in my favor in the recent months.”

“Ever since —”

“Percival,” Mr Graves cuts in, steepling his fingers in front of his face. He closes his eyes, as if recalling a memory, before opening them again with a steely unforgiving gaze. “Forgive me for asking, but, how’s your leg?”

He doesn’t meet Percival, until several days later, though there are traces of him everywhere in the library and the dining hall: an unfinished cup of coffee, and a seat reserved for him at the long table, his plate empty and untouched; a grey cashmere scarf snaking around the reading couch, books taken out of their hiding places and heaped on the table in front of the fire, parchment scrolls left as if in afterthought. A square piece of cream-colored stationery with a long list of names, some scratched out: _Gaderian, Gellert, Gunnel, Gymir…_

Percival is Ulfius’ younger brother by seven years, an Auror by trade, recently returned from war. There’s always a war to be fought, it seemed to Credence, some mysterious battle or another here or abroad that left men paralyzed and plagued with bad dreams. He imagines the wars fought by wizards to be no different from the wars fought by regular folk, _no-maj’s_ , though instead of bullets, it was hexes that rent the air, and unforgivable curses that rained like falling shrapnel. War is the same wherever you go, his tutor had told him, when he’d caught Credence absorbed in a book about them, no-maj’s killing off wizards by the droves, a battle that spanned nearly a hundred years. It leaves grooves on everything it touches and no man is ever left quite the same again.

One afternoon, Credence is woken from a light sleep by a thump from the fireplace. He opens his eyes and hears someone muttering, and lifts his head to peek over his reading chair. His view is screened by a precarious stack of books but he sees enough to make sense of what has happened: someone had just flooed into the library. 

When the man from the fireplace raises his head as he pauses brushing himself off, their eyes meet briefly and Credence looks away, hiding behind his chair, suddenly rendered shy. 

What’s striking about Percival is not his eyes, dark like the bottom of a deep well, but his lack of a resemblance to Ulfius: a strong jaw peppered by stubble, a pair of thick equally dark eyebrows, a stern mouth that knew how to smile. Percival dusts floo powder off his shoulders and crosses the room in three long strides, the hem of his robes gliding smoothly across the flagstone floor. His cologne smells expensive, cool and crisp and elegant, like the white of his dress shirt, a hint of cedar bark and citrus. He has a slight limp that Credence only notices when he catches sight of the walking stick at Percival’s side. The two buttons of his shirt are undone, his sleeves rolled to the elbows, baring bronzed forearms, his only capitulation to the heat. 

“Hello,” Percival says, as Credence blinks at him mutely. “You must be Credence.”

“Hello,” says Credence in a small, shaking voice.

Percival watches him the way one would watch a flighty animal, equal parts pity and amusement though his gaze is not unkind. He thrusts out a hand Credence takes too long to shake, and by the time Credence reaches out, his fingers clammy with sweat, shaking with nerves, Percival has already moved away, training his gaze out the window. 

“My name is Percival,” Percival says, after Credence drops his hand. 

“I know who you are,” Credence tells him. He almost bites his tongue off at the slip, reddening and glancing down at his hands twined in his lap. 

“Has Ulfius told you about me?” Percival asks, moving to a decanter situated on the mantle, sloshing with golden brown liquid. He pours himself a glass. “I’m his brother; I don’t know if he’s ever mentioned me.Knowing him — anyway, you may call me Uncle, I suppose, though I prefer that you call me by my given name.”

“Understood,” Credence says with a nod. “Mr Percival.” 

“You like to read?” Percival gestures to the books scattered here and there. Credence uncoils himself from his perch in his reading chair, straightening his clothes, the scratchy wooly blanket falling from his legs to pool at his feet when he stands to his full height.

Something in Percival’s face softens, like a rope unspooling, and he bends to pick up the blanket from the ground. “This blanket,” he says, looking into Credence’s eyes for the first time, and holding his gaze. “Where is it from?”

“I found it in the bedroom.”

“Whose?” Percival asks, and then his voice goes low: “Show me,” he says.

So Credence does.

They take the long walk down the hall, then up the stairs, through a maze of corridors, until finally, they reach Credence’s door. He pushes it open without a spell but Percival stays silent, remaining motionless. Then Credence steps inside and Percival follows.

“This was my room before it was yours,” Percival says, touching the drapes adorning the bed, knocking the back of his hand against the bed posts as if to test their strength. He leans against the wall, arms crossed, having a look around, as if he were a stranger in his own house. “You’ll take care of it, won’t you Credence? I expect as much from you.”

Credence blinks at him. “Yes, yes sir,” he says, quickly. “I promise. I will.”

“Good.” Percival smiles. “Now, tell me, how are you Credence? How are you faring?”

The question knocks Credence off guard. Adults never asked him how he was. They spoke to him, sometimes, as if he were simply part of the room’s furnishings, at him, or through him, but not one had ever asked how he felt. His Ma gave him orders while Ulfius quizzed him on how much he retained from his sessions with tutors. Sometimes, Credence suspected, adults simply liked hearing the sound of their own voice. 

Credence lets the question sink through him, a blade slicing butter. He wants to cry, moved by the kindness in Percival’s gaze. When his Church had burned down, and Tina had allowed him to visit the cemetery where his Ma and sisters were buried, he did not weep. And when he left the Orphanage, and his only friend Carlotta behind, his eyes had been dry as gravel; he did not mourn their loss.

“I imagine it must be daunting, living in a big house like this, without a friend to talk to,” Percival continues, as if he can read Credence’s thoughts. “I hope the servants are treating you well. And that my brother — well, he’s a good man, all things considered. His heart is in the right place. He’ll take care of you the best he can.”

“I’m grateful for his generosity,” Credence says. He means it. Even if he is left well alone most of the time, in the company of tutors and wide empty rooms, and no one ever stops to talk to him or ask him about his day, even if the long hallways, flanked by moving paintings of sneering witches and wizards, made him lonelier than an empty house. He means it. 

“Aren’t we all?” Percival says with a little laugh. He taps Credence on the chin. “Look at people when they talk to you, Credence. Look them straight in the eye so they know you mean business. Just a suggestion.” He smiles again. “How old are you?”

“Ten.”

“All set for Ilvermorny then.”

“If I get a letter,” Credence mumbles.

“Why wouldn’t you?”

“Because I’m a _squib_ ,” Credence says, faster than he can stop himself from saying it. He knows it’s the wrong thing to say because Percival’s face clouds over, his forehead deepening with three lines. But instead of getting angry, or slapping him on the face, or shaking him angrily by the shoulders like Ma would sometimes do, in hopes of beating the wrongness out of him, Percival simply touches his shoulder, frowns.

“Now, who told you that?” he says. “Who taught you that word?”

“It means I can’t do magic.”

“Not all magic has teeth,” Percival tells him, and when Credence shoots him a questioning look, he hastens to explain: “It’s a saying. It means magic can take on many forms. It’s a serious avocation. Sometimes it can take years before a person’s magic can manifest. There was a man in Sweden, who woke up and found he’d turned everything in his house upside down in his sleep. He was forty.”

“I don’t want it to take years,” Credence says, his eyes blurring. “I don’t want to wait until I’m forty. I want— I want—” 

He always wants. Credence finds himself crying. 

Percival watches him for a moment, looking awkward, not knowing what to do, before he starts to kneel on the floor and cup Credence’s shoulders. His breath reeks of tobacco, ashy with a hint of sourness — persimmons, Credence thinks, like the candies the house-elves leave on the nightstand. His eyes have brown flecks in them, and gold, round as full moons. Part of his jaw is unshaven with bristles. 

“Credence,” Percival whispers, conjuring a handkerchief from his inner pocket and pressing it to Credence palms so he could scrub at his eyes himself, violently as if erasing a mistake. “Credence, calm down now. Wipe your tears. You’re a Graves. And Graves men do not cry even with shrapnel studding their chest. But here’s a secret: only the brave ones ever do.” 

“I’m not brave,” Credence hiccups. “I’m not anything!”

“None of us are, not really, not where it counts,” Percival assures him. He taps Credence on the nose to get him to look at him. “Now here’s another secret: we’re all just very good at pretending.”

Credence sees Percival more after that: not just traces of him in the everyday rhythms of his life, like a pair of hunting boots left in the den, or a black umbrella leaning against the wall in the foyer, but at the table for breakfast, paging through _The New York Ghost_ and spooning sugar into his coffee, wearing a dressing gown with a dark swirling design. He runs, sometimes, in the morning, a short circuit around the grounds to ease the pain in his leg which he says might never heal. The bones had mended terribly, after it had been crushed several times and made to grow again with an illegal draught he had procured that had more alcohol than healing properties. 

When Credence asks him how he had hurt his leg, Percival smiles blandly and changes the subject. Percival asks him about his books, which ones are his favourite, and which he only reads to appease Ulfius. 

“There is this one,” Credence confesses shyly, one afternoon when they take their tea in the library, the sun setting outside and casting a syrupy warm glaze over the room. He shows Percival the tattered remains of the cover: _The Adventures of Rufus Morrowblade_ , and Percival, he laughs and laughs, spilling tea all over the carpet. He waves a hand and with a flick of the wrist, the tea stains disappear, the carpet good as new. 

“Credence,” he says, looking aghast as he faces him. “You have terrible taste. There are other books, better books in this library and you pick Rufus Morrowblade. My boy,that’s a load of —” but he sees the betrayed expression in Credence’s face, the abject humiliation, the red ears, bright as tomatoes, so he stops and finishes his tea. “Very well,” he says, as if coming upon a decision. “What about spell books? Have you read any?”

Credence blushes. He hesitates, and nods once. When he doesn’t speak, Percival prompts him. There’s nothing worse than being silent. And Graves men, said Percival, must always distinguish themselves from mice and speak. 

“But I’m not very good at spells, and I can’t do any magic,” Credence tells him. 

“Have you ever tried?”

“Yes,” Credence says. _Of course I have_ , he doesn’t say. _And I’ve failed countless times and hurt myself_. He grips his knee until his knuckles are white-tipped. His tutors have tried too. Nothing seemed to work. No amount of patience could undo the truth. “I’m a _squib_ ,” he says, feeling miserable all over again. There, he’s gone and said it.

“You aren’t,” Percival assures him. “Ulfius told me about — your mother. The one from the Church—”

Credence flinches.

“—How she tried to stun your magic. We’re going to undo that. We’re going to coax the magic out of you.”

“What if it doesn’t work?”

“Well,” Percival says. “You can’t blame a man for trying.” He smiles at the expression on Credence’s face. “Cheer up, Credence. A frown doesn’t become a Graves, you know.”

“But Ulfius does it quite a lot,” Credence whispers secretively. They share a look, Credence’s furtive, his head bowed, and Percival’s smile deepens as he musses Credence’s hair. Credence almost ducks out of the way, shy all over again, but he steels himself and lets Percival’s hand brush his hair. He’s never been touched like this before, boxed on the ears, or cuffed, slapped after saying a bad word, his hands struck after being caught drawing on the back of pews with a piece of chalk, but never handled with such offhand gentleness as if he deserved nothing less. 

“Does he,” Percival wonders a loud. “Well, perhaps Ulfius can be an exception.” He laughs as he drops his hand. 

*

And so begins their training: Percival, on indefinite leave, spends an hour each day teaching Credence spells. They don’t use books, they leave the heavy tomes in the library to gather dust, preferring instead to stand like duelists under the glare of the hot summer sun. Percival tells him to picture a light, shining bright within him, round as an egg and glowing like the moon, and when that doesn’t work, kneels on the grass and clutches Credence’s shoulders to search his face. “Have you ever gotten angry, Credence? At least once in your life?”

Credence shakes his head. A lie, because there had been times when rage had swallowed him down like a wide angry maw. But anger, he knows, is a sin, so he keeps that part of him to himself. He looks at Percival, feeling bad for disappointing him, for lying to his face. “I can try,” he says, curling his fists closed. “I’ll do my best.”

“Try? _Getting angry?_ ” Percival looks at him oddly. “We all have our calling, but ah, perhaps spellwork is not for you.” He stands to his feet, grass staining the knees of his trousers,his hands planted on his hips. He has foregone his robes in this kind of weather. He stands there now in a white buttoned shirt opened at the throat, a black cotton vest that cinched his trim waist. He pockets his wand, motions for Credence to follow him, walking haltingly with his cane to support him every step of the way. “Potions,” he says, over his shoulder as Credence trips over rocks and his own feet. “What do you know about Potions?”

There is a greenhouse, at the very edge of the property, up a steep hill, forlorn and forsaken, with boarded up windows showing toothy gaps, and a door charmed perpetually shut. Percival mends the broken glass with magic, but the rest of the detritus he clears out by hand, wanting, he says, more than needing, the exercise. He enlists Credence’s help, filling boxes with bits of broken crockery, pieces of old carpet, water-spotted books with half the pages missing, someone’s discarded yellow boot. 

The greenhouse had gone derelict with neglect, the vegetable plot in needing of repair, paint peeling away in places and revealing cracked gray plaster. Tiles from the roof had fallen and now littered an overgrown path choked with weeds. But after days of mending and righting, and with a bit of Madame Sally’s Spit Shine, they had restored the greenhouse — together — to its former glory, or at least made it habitable again. 

Credence presses his nose the glass to peer through the murk. It’s dark inside, still, but he can hear the distant sound of water dripping. He presses his ear to the newly restored window, caked in a thin layer of soot and dust, and listens. His heart hums inside his chest. He breathes and the smell of freshly turned earth fills his mouth. 

Percival furnishes the greenhouse with sitting chairs, with comfortable rugs, with a tea table he says he’d filched straight from the manor. A shelf of books with heavy tomes filled with pages upon pages of potions, detailed instructions on how to tell lavender from sage, hysop from mulberry.Lavender cured sleeplessness, while wintergreen sped healing; rowan twigs supposedly kept away evil spirits, the white sap from milkweed extracted to cure warts. 

“Plants have certain kinds of properties,” Percival said, licking a thumb and paging through a particularly thick book. “And leeches. There’s always leeches. You can learn a lot if you keep an open mind. ”

Credence’s ignorance of anything to do with potions amused Percival in turns. He told him of his childhood — clearing the scarred oak table to clutter it with pewter cauldrons, and flasks of various shapes and sizes which he later filled with frothing liquid — how he’d grown up with his brothers, Ulfius and Gareth, fitfully but without incident, he as the middle child, the three of them attending Ilvermorny one after the other, and sorted into different houses: Horned Serpent, Wampus, Thunderbird. There was a fourth house, Pukwudgie, but the Graves boys only numbered three. 

It was difficult for Credence to imagine that Percival had ever been small or awkward, or a boy, just like him. He was a man so certain of his place in the universe, wide in the shoulders, surefooted and brisk, with such kind steady hands that Credence could imagine him coming to life as nothing less than, coaxed out of firmament. Percival told stories the way hymns were sung in church, deep-voiced with gravity, a king holding holding court, and it made you stop and it made you listen. And it made Credence’s breath crackle like a juddering gramophone inside his chest as he clung to his every word like a man thrown a rope over a dark ravine. 

Percival began: he told him about the ghosts that sometimes prowled the halls of the manor, how, as a child, he had wanted his own dragon and had thrown a fit when his family had to cancel a trip to Bulgaria. In the summer, he and his brothers picked fruit from the orchard, and made homemade jam from the windfalls, storing them in glass jars to sell at the fair before the start of term; they tried their hand at making wine from beetroot, from raspberries, ginger, and elderflower, pans of fruit boiling on the stove, hosiery hanging on a clothesline for straining, sieves and funnels laid out in neat rows on the table, ready for use, the greenhouse smelling like a distillery. Their father had not been happy when he found out what they’d been up to all summer. It was probably why, Percival said later, they were all drinking men. The love of a good spirit came early. He could not sleep without a nightcap, a thimble of warm gin to cut his meals.

One morning, Percival apparates into the greenhouse carrying a heavy book in a burlap bag. He hefts it onto the table and Credence crowds around it, reading the gilded lettering on its worn spine: _A Bestiary of Plant Eaters._

Carefully avoiding its gentle tears, Credence thumbs through the rotting pages. He lets out a startled yelp as the book gives a shuddery purr before snapping shut without warning and narrowly avoiding his finger.

“Your book,” he gasps. “It’s… it’s alive!”

“Yes, well,” Percival says, scratching his jaw. “It has the tendency to bite, at times. Are you all right? Not hurt, are you?”

Credence shakes his head. It seems like an innocuous enough question, but it still makes him shy when Percival asks about his well-being. At breakfast, he smiles over his newspaper and asks if Credence had a good sleep, if he liked his eggs, which tutor he was expecting on a given day.

“I’m all right,” he says, then straightens up when Percival pulls out his wand. He taps the cauldron, once, twice, and the tinder below it sizzles to life, Credence jumping back in surprise and unable to hold back a gasp. He flushes, when he catches Percival looking at him curiously, wand still poised in the air. 

“Good,” Percival intones with a warm smile, reaching out to pat him on the head. Credence hunches his shoulders, turning even redder. 

“Now, Credence, let’s begin.”

Potions, Percival says, required the right conditions to work. Some draughts had to be brewed on a particular time of the month, under a particular set of circumstances, like a full moon or the start of winter solstice, otherwise they lost their potency. Ingredients had to be measured precisely, not haphazardly thrown into a cauldron. 

What separated wizards and no-maj’s was a wizards’s uncanny ability to imbue a potion with magical properties. A no-maj, following a potions book would do no more harm than a child attempting to cook for the first time, and most potions besides required a magical ingredient or two besides, difficult to procure by any means by anyone other than a witch or wizard: mandrake hair, for example, or lacewing flies, flobberworm mucus. No-maj’s had no access to any of these, and Credence wanted to say he didn’t, either, having lived most of his life ordinary and un-special. 

Percival, a patient teacher, buys him a potions kit which consists of a cauldron and various measuring implements, funnels and phials and empty corked vials to store his concoctions in. He encourages Credence to try his hand at simple potions like invigorating draughts and elixirs that restored strength, setting safety charms on the corners of the greenhouse so he doesn’t put himself at risk. 

The first lesson has Credence brewing a Sleeping Draught. They test it on Percival who has a flask at hand to undo the effects in case — Credence shakes his head. His Sleeping Draught doesn’t work on Percival even after the fourth try, the fifth. After that, he just wants to cry in frustration, shout, even as Percival puts a hand on his shoulder and tells him, “Again.”

Again, again. Again. On the twelfth attempt, Credence barely talks at all, grinding ingredients and keeping his face blank as a mask even though his heart beat painfully like a hammer inside his ribs. He prays, under his breath, even though it’s been a long while since he’s done that and wonders if God can hear his voice. He pours the draught into a glass vial after it steeps, then presents it to Percival who gives it a whiff. The potion had turned the correct mauve color but even appearances could be deceiving. 

Percival nods at him and uncapping the vial, downs the potion in one gulp. Credence blinks up at him, his breath bated, his hands clammy as he curls them tightly at his sides. Percival’s expression doesn’t change, a smooth mask that’s imperturbable as a wall, as he sets the vial clumsily on the table so that it rolls across the surface and topples on the ground, touching Credence’s shoe.

Percival looks at Credence, then pitches forward, before slumping on the ground. 

Credence’s scrambles to check his breathing, kneeling next to him where his limp body lies supine on the ground, limbs askew. “Mr Percival!” he shouts. “Mr Percival, are you all right? Please, please, please be alive, please—” He presses his head against Percival’s chest, ear to his heart, and nearly cries in relief when he hears the telltale thrum of it in his ribs, beating a slow steady rhythm. Then Percival starts to snore and Credence crows in triumph, slapping a hand over his mouth to stifle his sound of glee. He giggles to himself, unable to help the grin stretching his face. It hurts, sometimes, to smile so wide, to laugh. It’s not something he’s used to doing, but Percival can coax it out of him so easily with a well-timed joke at his own expense, or a look. 

It rains, a little, as Credence waits for the effects of the sleeping draught to wear off, a drizzle that makes the casement windows shake and sends the pots and pans hanging from a hook by the door clattering. Credence watches Percival sleep, crawling over to him and biting his lip as he pokes him on the cheek, startling when his fingertip scrapes against the rough bristle of Percival’s unshaved jaw. He’s handsome, objectively speaking. Credence knows that some of the servants watch him like a hawk, with admiration in their eyes, sometimes envy. He wants to grow up to become just like Percival, a man so full of mystery: strong, clever, and kind. 

He fetches the divan from the ottoman and throws it over Percival. It’s too small but it will have to do. Credence pulls his legs up to his chest and wraps his arms around his knees, and listens to Percival’s snoring, afraid to touch him again, or wake him. He’ll simply have to wait until the draught wears off, Credence thinks as he closes his eyes. Eventually, he falls asleep and wakes up with his head resting against Percival’s leg.

Percival is sitting up, his eyes still blurred with sleep, a fist pressed to his mouth as he fights back a yawn. His other hand he rests on Credence’s back, and Credence flinches, expecting a beating, a slap, a sharp reprimand of some kind. He relaxes incrementally when Percival’s hand simply pats him on the back before it rests there, rather absently, permeating warmth. 

“Credence.” Percival’s voice is soft. Credence looks at him through the dark fringe screening his eyes. “Well done, my boy. Well done.” 

*

Percival takes him out on an excursion. “You’ll need a wand,” he says in August as they climb up the steep hill to the greenhouse, armed with boxes of Credence’s favourite books, so he could read there instead of the library, if he pleased. “School is starting soon, and you need to be ready.” He touches Credence’s shoulder again, tilts him this way and that. “And robes, you’ll need new robes. Did Ulfius not buy you new ones? These look terribly old fashioned. The sleeves have ruffles!” 

“There was a tailor, once. He came and measured me for clothes,” Credence says. He feels a little bit insulted that Percival had called his robes old-fashioned as they were the only things to truly belong to him first. Everything before them had been secondhand: shoes, books, toys. Even his room had been Percival’s; there was nothing else that belonged, solely, to him. He felt protective, defensive.

“That’s it?” Percival hedges. Credence nods. 

“Pity,” Percival says, clicking his tongue.“Well, Ulfius has always had terrible taste. I suppose we’re going to have to get you better robes then. Lessons will have to be postponed tomorrow, I’m afraid, because we’ll need all day to make our rounds.”

“Are we going somewhere?” The thought of leaving the estate, finally, after months of roaming the maze of its halls and disappearing corridors thrills Credence, and he has to stop himself from bouncing on his heels in excitement.

“Yes,” Percival affirms. “This is your reward. You’ve been a most studious pupil and it’s only right that I give you a present.”

“You don’t have to, Mr Percival,” Credence says meekly, already touched by the thought alone, that Percival would want to give him anything at all. 

“Oh, but I insist,” Percival says. “And turning it down will be a most grievous insult. You wouldn’t want that, would you?” He raises an eyebrow, and Credence doesn’t know whether or not this is one of his jokes. With Percival, it’s often hard to tell; Credence is sometimes late to pick up on his humor and half the time misses his cue to laugh. 

After an uncomfortable silence, Credence shakes his head vigorously. “No, no,” he says, scrambling to correct himself. “No, of course not, Mr Percival. I don’t mean to insult you! I just—”

“Please,” Percival smiles, patting him on the back as he leads Credence through the door of the greenhouse. “Just Percival.”

*

The night before, Credence is unable to summon sleep, full of excitement for their day ahead. He’ll get Percival to himself, for more than an hour, and that’s more than he’s ever allowed. Percival disappears every now and then, flooing just in time for lessons, and then leaving soon after as if perpetually running late for an appointment, grabbing his cane and robes. From what Credence understands, though he’s on extended leave for the time being, there were still duties that needed his seeing to. Percival works for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. A prestigious line of work, he says, often with a wink, but tedious at times, and bogged down with more paperwork than he cares to do. 

Credence imagines him in an enormous office with dark mahogany furnishings, accolades lining the walls floor to ceiling and a high-backed chair quite like that one in Ulfius’ study, a secretary at his disposal and a window with the best view in the building.

He washes his face the next morning, tired from his lack of sleep, hardly able to keep down any food as a result. Percival joins him for breakfast, having nothing more than a cup of coffee, and pilfered copy of _The New York Ghost_ announcing that the _Manchester Magpies_ had beat the _New York Nightmarchers_ 3-1. Later he asks him if he’s ever apparated before. “Not even side-along?” Percival asks, bewildered, when Credence tells him the truth, that he’s never been anywhere but the Orphanage, the train station, the estate, no other place warranting apparition. 

Percival straightens and then nods his head, before seeming to come upon a decision. Another trait Credence admires: Percival’s certainty, how easy it is for him to move from one situation to the next, completely unruffled. 

“You can just wrap your arms around me, I suppose. There — just so— not too tight — and then we can— comfortable? Right, then. Make sure to keep your eyes closed; sometimes that helps. You can think a happy thought too, if you want; it can get quite uncomfortable if it’s your first time.” He smiles down at Credence who weakens and buries his face inside Percival’s robes, his ears flaming red as he gets a noseful of lemon-scented cologne. His arms are curled around Percival’s waist, flung tight. The scratchy cotton of Percival’s vest rubs his cheek. He’s read enough about apparition to know it isn’t always successful. Wizards and witches have been known to splich themselves, or die. 

Credence holds his breath. 

“Ready?” Percival asks. When Credence nods, he pats him once on the head. “There’s no need to fear, Credence. I’ll be with you every step of the way.” He chuckles when Credence nods again, then readies his stance, one arm wrapped around Credence’s shoulder, cradling his back. “Whatever happens, dear boy, you must promise to never let go.”

Credence doesn’t think he can, even if he were forcibly pried from Percival’s side. 

*

“Here we are,” Percival says, the second the world stops moving, Credence’s hands fisting his robes. It had happened in the space of a minute, his insides upending themselves, the breath punched out of his lungs, pressure behind his eyes, inside his skull. It felt like he was being pulled in all directions. He’s never apparating again, if he can help it. 

“You can open your eyes now, Credence,” Percival says. His voice sounds like it’s coming from far away. When Credence peels his eyes open, Percival hands him a sweet — a sherbet lemon — wrapped in glittering foil. It’s supposed to help with the dizziness. He chews on it obediently and shivers at the tartness that bursts inside his mouth.

He has to screw his mouth shut the whole time to keep himself from gaping. The noise of the street is almost jarring: hawkers selling everything from used cauldrons to rolls of parchment, to spellbooks and jars filled with murky unnamable things. Storefronts gleamed and glistened, their best wares on display. Credence counts the shops they walk past, losing track after twelve, though he remembers those that catch his attention fleetingly — an apothecary, a shop that sold owls, another that displayed a variety of broomsticks with a poster of the _Harlem Herons_ pasted on the window. At the end of the zigzagging street stood a teetering three-story bookstore with an owl perched comfortably on the awning. 

Credence stops. The owl glances down at him and hoots. 

“Come along, Credence,” Percival says, holding out his hand as he stops in the middle of the street. “We mustn’t dawdle.”

Credence hurries after him and grabs his hand.

*

They shop, first, for a wand. Credence is, needless to say, terrified for a number of different reasons. What if it doesn’t take? What if he disappoints himself, or worse yet, Percival for hoping? Then this excursion would have been a waste. The past month — all a waste. 

The wandmaker is a kind portly man with a wiry mustache and watery blue eyes. His shop is bigger on the inside, a battered wooden counter scarred from years of use, a long hunter-green sofa where patrons could sit while they waited their turn. Behind the counter, a shelf filled with various bric-a-brac, pots of quills and a ticking metronome, framed clippings of the shop being features in various newspapers across the world. He introduces himself as Theodore Brayles III. The shop outside had a brass plate, Credence remembers: Brayles & Sons _est 1805_. 

Percival had made a last minute appointment the day previous so they had the shop to themselves for the better part of an hour. 

When Percival shuts the door behind him, the bell above it tinkles in greeting and the man’s eyes light up knowingly. “There you are, Percival Graves,” he says with a light laugh. “I was wondering where you were. You’re late!”

Percival simply grunts. “This is my — _charge_. My nephew.” He pauses. “Credence.” He doesn’t apologize. 

Brayles peers down at Credence over his counter, adjusting his half-moon spectacles. “I’ve heard all about him. Ulfius’ then, I assume?”

Percival nods, and pats Credence on the shoulder. He’s clipping his words. “He’s due to start Ilvermorny in the fall. He’ll need a wand.”

“Well then, I’d be happy to help your nephew here with a wand,” says Theodore Brayles, winking at Credence and then at Percival who huffs and makes himself comfortable in one of the waiting chairs by the window. Credence is ushered to the back room, and the last he sees of Percival is of him conjuring a newspaper out of thin air, and an apprentice — no older than Credence — approaching him with a tea tray filled with cakes.

“Wands can be sly, slippery things,” Brayles tells Credence, rummaging through his haphazard shelves as if searching for something in particular. He taps his chin before climbing up a set of rickety stairs with the wheels wobbling just slightly to merit concern. “It’s all about compatibility, you know. Making sure everything fits, and meshes. You must remember, Credence, that it is the wand that chooses the master, and not the other way around.” 

Credence has no idea what he’s talking about. Brayles sets down a number of boxes on a round table in the middle of a room, running his fingers through a few of them before handing one over to Credence — no wider than a pencil case, and at least the length of a ruler. 

Brayles take a measured step back. “The room is charmed so you don’t have to worry.”

_But what does that mean,_ Credence thinks, unwrapping the box, and staring at the velvet lining pillowing a sleek mahogany wand. He doesn’t know what to do. He’s seen Ulfius brandish his wand to stir his coffee, his tutors set the room alight with one whispered word. And Percival doesn’t even use a wand most of the time, except to light a cauldron or show Credence a trick to make him laugh.

“Go on —” nudges Brayles, waving his hand emphatically. 

“But I’ve never —” Credence peers over his shoulder, at the counter. Percival is absorbed in his newspaper, eating a scone, one leg crossed over the other. Sunlight from outside makes the whites in his hair shine gold. He doesn’t look up no matter how hard Credence secretly wills it. 

Credence nods, determined, and has a tight swallow. “All right,” he says. He picks up the wand with shaky hands — two hands — and waves it around the room. Nothing. He tries again. Nothing. The third time, he does it with so much force he actually lets out a frustrated noise and barrels backwards against the shelves, knocking the contents askew. 

Brayles gently takes the wand from him and asks him to try another. It takes them the better part of the day, during some point they break for lunch, turn the sign over at the door to “closed”, and return to the back room. Percival waits, because Brayles says choosing a wand is a private thing, and that he must stay put, no matter what, o _ut, out Mr Graves!_ waving him out the room the second he steps in to check up on Credence. 

When all is said and done, Brayles mops sweat off his forehead with a tartan kerchief. He reaches under his desk, rifling through the contents of a drawer. “My father made this, years ago,” he says, pulling out a slender box covered in dust, the corners pinched and beaten. “Perhaps we should give it a try. Otherwise I’ll write you a recommendation to Theodore Trubody. He’s a friend of mine, also in the same line of business, makes very sturdy wands. Credence, if you please?” 

Credence takes the wand from him, feeling its solid heft in his right hand. He’s tired, and his arm hurts in the beginnings of a cramp. He sighs and lifts the wand to inspect its make though he’s not overly familiar with wands enough to determine what this one is hewn from. Birch, Acacia, Elder, Hornbeam. It all looked the same to him, even as Brayles had walked him through each of their properties, explaining cores compatible to each.

This one however, this feels right, somehow, light enough that it follows the movement of his wrist when he cuts it through the air.

Credence closes his eyes, and gives it a slight wave. One, two, _three_ , he counts, and suddenly thinks of Percival, there outside on the sofa, with his hands steepled in his lap as he waited patiently — and then, there it is, trembling out of his hand, a burst of light shooting out from the tip of the wand, sending boxes on the shelf toppling on the floor and Brayles scurrying out of the way to avoid impact. 

“Credence!” Percival barks, bursting through the door. “Credence are you —”

Credence looks at Percival, his mouth hanging agape. His heart is thrumming, and his skin feels thin, like the slightest touch would undo him. He wants to, of all things, cry, and he’s not certain whether it’s from joy or utter fright. His hand is still shaking when Percival takes the wand from him, kneeling to embrace him, to cup his face and get him to look at him. 

“Are you all right, Credence?”

Credence doesn’t know.He trembles and lets himself fall forward into Percival’s arms, sobbing uncontrollably, the last vestiges of composure leaving him. He’s a wizard, he thinks. _He has magic._ He was not a squib. He will not be taken away and sent back to the Orphanage. In September, he’ll get his Ilvermorny letter, and Ulfius — Percival — will clap him on the back and be proud of him.

“Rowan with a phoenix feather core,” says Brayles, righting himself from where he’s slumped in the corner, his glasses knocked off his face, now crooked. They both turn to look at him, wiping a speck off his glasses with a corner of his robe. “What an excellent match!” 

*

It’s late when they leave the shop, a silver moon rising, just enough to cast shadows. Percival takes him to a restaurant at the end of the street, housed by a very tall building with a gilded front and a pair of revolving glass doors. The decor is expensive, the inside like a fortune teller’s booth, decked in red drapes and comfortable lounge chairs. The menu is brought to them by a house-elf who stands waiting patiently by their table for their order.

“Are you mad?” Credence asks, after Percival has ordered for them both, tonight’s house special with a goblet of the best wine for him, fizzy water for Credence with a drop of lemon. 

Percival looks up from smoothing a napkin over his lap. “No,” he says quizzically. His eyebrows knit together. “Why would I be?” 

“Because you had to pay for everything I broke in the shop,” Credence says in a small voice. It’s true — several wands had splintered in the kerfuffle, and the impact had left a sizeable crater on the floor. He’s seen Percival hand a pouch over to Brayles, heavy with gold coins, apologizing for the mishap while Brayles insisted that no, no it was just one of the many hazards of the job, and he hasn’t been very thorough about fortifying his safety charms as of late, signs of his age, he’d joked.

Credence holds out his hands. He’s had his knuckles slapped with a hickory stick during lessons, and his Ma would beat his hands with a belt if she thought he didn’t say his psalms before supper. He’s used to pain. 

“I’m sorry, Mr Percival,” Credence says, ready for — for anything. But Percival just looks at him, then his palms, a frown marring his handsome face.

“Credence,” Percival says. Credence always warms at the delicate way Percival shapes his name. “ _What on earth_ — do you expect me to punish you? What happened to your hands? Who did this?”

Credence clenches his fists shut. He remembers Carlotta, how she’d warned him never to show anyone his scars. But he wasn’t thinking, isn’t thinking. He pockets his hands and nearly jumps out of his skin when Percival clasps his shoulder. 

“I’m sorry, Mr Percival,” he says again. But he won’t look at Percival. He can’t stand his pity. 

“For what?” Percival asks. “Credence, you’ve been delightful. Now, let me see your hands. Please.” He waits, his hand on the back of Credence’s neck, his face an unreadable mask. He waits.

Finally, Credence shows him, uncurling his fists so Percival can trace a finger over the ridges of his scars. They disappear under his touch with a faint tickle, like they’ve never been there at all, and Credence, he looks up at Percival and shivers. He’s read about miracles, acts God performed to demonstrate his power, Lazaraus rising from the Grave and jars of oil and flour kept full during a winter famine, water rising high enough to flood a city down, and yet — he’s moved by this simple act, struck by wonder and awe.

“If anyone ever hurts you again, Credence, they’ll answer to me, understand?” Percival says. “Did Ulfius—?”

“My Ma,” Credence confesses, interrupting him. “But only if I’ve been bad.”

“I can scarcely imagine you ever being bad,” Percival says, like he’s never been so sure of anything else. 

“It’s true,” Credence protests, because he knows that it is, that sometimes there are some truths he can never outrun no matter how changed his circumstances are. “I’m stubborn, dull; no one is ever going to love a _freak_ like me.”

“Did she tell you that?” Percival says, sounding horrified. “Because what I see in front of me is a remarkable young man who’s clever and kind.” He squeezes Credence’s shoulder meaningfully. “You’ll make a great wizard someday, Credence. Mark my words.”

Credence believes him.

They wait for his Ilvermorny letter. His tutors — even Ulfius, returned from the myriad galas and dinner parties he’s forced to attend as part of his campaign, waiting tensely for Credence’s letter to arrive, pacing his study with a drink in hand; his tutors avidly watching the window every morning. 

It arrives almost without fanfare on a Friday, delivered by a horned owl flying in through the open window, dropping the letter into Percival’s soup, Percival catching it in time with hardly a blink. Credence, of course, doesn’t see the letter at first, immersed in a book Percival has allowed him to take with him to the table; he doesn’t see Percival running his thumb over the wax seal before pocketing the letter in his robe. What he does sees is Percival feeding the owl table scraps from his hand, patting it gently on the head before sending it on its way, turning his attention back to the newspaper in his lap.

Later after their potions lessons in the greenhouse, Percival says they ought to go fishing. There’s a lake at the foot of the hill, two boats moored on the dock, covered in a canvas blanket smelling of mildew. The late afternoon sun slants through the trees that rim the perimeter of the lake, tracing shadows over the red dust of the ground. Even later still, the skies will boil over with rain to make amends, but for now there is this: a pervasive heat so oppressive it makes leaves curl. Sweat beads Percival’s upper lip. 

Percival starts rowing until the dock is just a tiny speck in the distance, and then hands Credence a fishing rod which he almost drops in the water with clumsy hands. 

“My father used to take me and my brothers fishing,” he tells Credence, his eyes fixed on the unmoving waters, shining under the summer sun like coins. The deeper you go, Credence thinks, the faster you sink, the easier it is to drown. He tries not to move so much lest the boat tips over.

Because it’s hot, they doff their robes, leaving them folded in a heap in a corner, collars unbuttoned, their sleeves hanging loose. For an hour they just sit there, not saying anything, waiting for fish to grab hold of their bait, but nothing of the sort happens and soon, Credence nods forward and almost falls asleep.

He starts to dream. When he wakes, he remembers very little: a rope hanging over a tree, him running through the street rough with stones, his hands bleeding, staining his clothes. He comes to with a start, and finds Percival lounging on his back, a book propped open across his chest. His eyes are half-closed, like he too, is about to succumb to ennui. He’s given up all pretenses, and now their fishing rods hover in the hair, suspended by magic. He peers at Credence over his book, no bigger than a hand, a curl of hair out of its neat coif, suspended between his brows like a comma.

“I have a confession to make, Credence,” he says, sitting up easily. “I’m afraid I may have hidden something from you.” He reaches for his robes, digging through the inner pockets and then taking out an envelope, the corners creased beyond mending. He offers it to Credence who takes it with a bleary blink before giving Percival a questioning look. When Credence turns the envelope over in his hands and sees the glossy navy wax seal, his heart skips a beat and he wastes no time tearing it, reading the welcome letter greedily with trembling hands. The ink still smells fresh and smudges his fingertips. The paper feels weightless in his hands, like it’s made of air. 

“Dear Mister —” he looks up at Percival, blushing, eyes heavy with unshed tears. “ _Graves_ ,” he says, choking on a lump lodged inside his throat like a stone. “They called me a _Graves_.”

“You’re nothing less than,” Percival tells him, watching him carefully, arms hanging loosely over his knees, body hunched. “Go on, then. Read the rest.”

Credence does, his voice quavering. Afterwards, he tucks the letter back into the envelope and folds it inside his pocket. He tries to calm himself, steady breaths out and in, but even his bones are shaking, his heart so full inside his ribs that he forgets to breathe. In his excitement, he forgets himself, and pitches forward to hug Percival. Tight, like he’s never dared, his face buried in the folds of his shirt as he gets a noseful of sweat-laced collar. Sour with a hint of persimmons, the bitter heady scent of tobacco.

The boat rocks in warning, yawing from side to side, but Percival holds him steady, and smooths a hand down his hair, his fingers sliding through Credence’s lanky curls which have grown unkept, past his ears and beyond his chin.

“I’ll make you proud,” Credence says, nodding eagerly, tightening his grip. “I promise. I’ll make you so proud.”

Percival laughs, patting him on the back. “You already, do, Credence. You make me — all of us very proud.”

*

A week before he is set to leave for Ilvermorny, Ulfius throws him a party, inviting everyone he knows including their children. Some of them are Credence’s age, _purebloods_ , from the looks of them, a word he’s heard thrown about constantly by Ulfius, meaning born of a witch and a wizard. 

The children, like him, are set to attend Ilvermorny in September, the offsprings of wealthy witches and wizards form upstate. Credence doesn’t approach them, completely terrified of their easy camaraderie, their decadent clothing, the way they seemed to travel in a tight flock like sharp-beaked birds.

Still — it’s a wonderful party, only because it’s Credence’s first and Ulfius introduces him to the many guests as his — _adopted_ — son. He imagines this is what it must feel like to have a birthday celebration thrown in his honor, Ulfius’ hand heavy on his shoulder as he steers him from one group of guests to another, asserting his presence in every conversation, pressing his hand against Credence’s back. 

There’s cake, and pie, and a tall tiered fountain frothing with chocolate milk, but Credence hides behind the drapery, watching their guests mill about in the ballroom the second Ulfius turns his back. He sneaks out to the terrace where he finds Percival speaking to someone in low hushed tones. They’re smoking, it’s the first time Credence has seen Percival smoke, brandishing a long black pipe which he holds elegantly between the fingers of his right hand. The smoke smells like persimmons, the same scent Credence recognizes on all of Percival’s clothes, bitter but familiar. 

“He wants to run for president,” Percival is saying when Credence stumbles into their conversation. 

“Merlin knows that’s the last thing the country needs,” snorts Percival’s friend. He speaks with an accent. He’s almost as tall as Graves, with a riot of curly brown hair, and when he turns slightly in Credence’s direction, a smattering of freckles across his nose. Handsome too but in an awkward boyish way, less refined than Percival. 

They both when they hear Credence at the door, and Percival stops speaking altogether when he sees Credence peeping, narrowing his eyes speculatively. 

“Theseus,” he says, finally, and then motions for Credence to reveal himself and stop hiding in the shadows. “I’d like you to meet my — my nephew, Credence.”

“Credence,” Theseus repeats, sounding completely flummoxed for a moment. Then he grins, setting his pipe aside and grabbing Credence’s hand to shake, clasping it in both hands. His eyes are alight with excitement. “I’ve heard so much about you! Starting school, yes? Ilvermorny?” He winks and whispers, with feigned solemnity, “It’s a pity you aren’t English, because then you’d be attending Hogwarts, only the best wizarding school in the world.”

Percival lets out a huff of annoyance. “Don’t listen to him, Credence. He’s addled with drink.”

“Now, now, Percival, we both know which school produces more Aurors.” 

They lapse into a friendly argument, and Credence feels suddenly left out, the same way he used to feel when adults talked around him. A part of him feels a stab of, of _jealousy_ , his mind supplies, but he tamps it down and waits for Percival to take notice of him, to pay attention to his new dress robes, tailor-made for tonight’s occasion, silver buttons at the sleeves and throat.

But he’s laughing, and shaking his head, blowing rings of smoke into the night air as Theseus recites a long list of Hogwarts alumni some of whom have joined the International Quidditch Federation, he says. And not once does Percival ever glance Credence’s way. 

Credence clears his throat and lingers, haltingly, in the doorway.


	2. and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

_ ii. _

_ and this is the wonder _  
_ that's keeping the stars apart _

 

* * *

 

 

There are two things Credence hates about end of term: packing and last minute homework. He’s turned in his Divination essay, but it’s his Charms practical that’s giving him the most trouble. He’s got half the coursework memorized, but in actuality he’s not that great of a student. He tends to focus on the wrong parts of assignments, and gets caught up in passing details and tangents. 

His first year in Ilvermorny had been punctuated by several trips to the nurse’s office after a series of misfires in Applied Magic and Potions left him with warts, boils, and on one occasion, growing another foot. After-school activities didn’t fare very well either; he could barely ride a broom much less throw a quaffle. Ulfius had been furious upon receiving his marks by owl post, and demanded Credence take electives the following term to make up for his lackluster performance. He was then put on a more rigorous schedule with tutors. 

 But Credence isn’t a first year anymore, he tells himself, and it won’t do at all to lag behind in classes. He’s a prefect, with a badge to show for it, if nothing else. He needs to compensate by working harder than everyone else. Bad marks means provoking Ulfius’ heavy disapproval, and consequently getting banned from any summer outing Percival has in store for him. 

This year, he’s taking Credence to the Herons game, and while Credence doesn’t usually care for domestic Quidditch, he’ll take any excuse to get himself outside the estate and spend time with Percival whom he hasn’t seen neither hide nor hair of in a year and a half after he’d been sent on assignment in Bucharest. They’ve kept correspondence through letters though Percival had a terrible habit of forgetting to send his on time, too absentminded or else caught up in the eddies of his work life. 

Credence straightens, uncurling himself where he’s slouched on a garden bench in back quad, scribbling notes into the margins of a heavy Charms textbook. Even at eight-oh-six in the morning, all of Ilvermorny is awash with the frantic hum of activity: students coming and going through the bursary doors, robes flying as they traveled in tight little herds. The sun is warm on the back of his neck, prickling his skin. He’s tied his hair with a ribbon to keep it from getting into his face, unruly now more than it’s ever been in years and touching his shoulders. He’ll probably get himself a haircut as soon as he gets back to the estate; he’s been meaning to cut it since September. 

Credence takes his Charms practical that afternoon without fanfare, slinking out the classroom door with the knot in his stomach finally having unspooled. It’s his last exam for the term, which means he can head home early and take the first train out of Ilvermorny. He quickens his footsteps short of bursting into an excited sprint, navigating the narrow flagstone maze leading to the Pukwudgie common room. He pilfers a copy of the train timetable from the tattered green baize of the departmental notice board and runs a finger over the list of schedules, clicking his tongue. There’s one in two days, Friday, which will give him enough time to pack and still be able to catch up with friends before they part ways for the summer. Koschei has been kept busy by Quidditch practice all year round while Effie — Effie has had enough on her plate to warrant time alone from the both of them. 

Credence pockets the timetable and takes the stairs two at a time, slapping his hand dully on the banister. He pitches himself onto his four-poster, crowded with books and an unworn fleece coat, face-first on the covers. He’s grateful he’s alone, his roommates elsewhere, likely sitting for exams. He groans into the sheets with barely concealed relief, rolling onto his back to stare at the spot of afternoon sun spilling through a knothole in the eaves. He breathes. 

Credence reaches under the bed for his treasure box — an old Christmas edition tin of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavoured Beans — where he stores most of his keepsakes: a set of playing cards, a lucky chess piece — the King — he’d stolen from Percival’s set, various odds and ends like a jade stone he’d picked up from the river, smoothed by wear and water, his old SPEW badge which he’d gotten when he was still a first year, a brooch Ulfius had gifted him on his thirteenth birthday bearing the perennial Graves crest. At the very bottom of the tin are the letters Percival has written him since he started Ilvermorny, held together loosely by a piece of twill. There are at least a dozen, maybe more, some yellowing with age in the corners, one for every holiday Percival has spent away from home, though a bulk of it had been sent during his time in Bucharest. 

Credence unfurls the last letter, which he’d received three weeks ago at breakfast: 

_Dearest Credence,_ it reads, in Percival’s elegant cursive. _In Romania the men kiss the women on the cheeks, one kiss on each cheek._

Credence can see it, Percival penning the letter in a dark room lit only by candlelight, his quill scratching parchment, his collar unbuttoned and loose while he took intermittent sips of firewhisky, a habit he claimed he was trying to wean himself off of in the last few years. It will be late, because he never has time for himself during the day, a five o-clock shadow dusting his face and a thoughtful frown creasing his eyebrows. He’ll send the letter in the morning, using an official MACUSA owl, and it’ll be another month or so before Credence will hear from him again, tight-lipped about the real goings-on of his assignment except for detailed accounts of his meals and the solitary walks he sometimes takes to Herastrau Park to see the spring flowers and watch the black swans swim around the lake

Credence stuffs the letter under his pillow when he ears the thunk of footsteps on the stairs. Koschei drags himself through the door and flops down onto his bed, kicking off his boots before rolling onto his back and flinging his arms over his face. He’s bigger than Credence, wide in the shoulders and bulky, with a Beater’s body, a shaggy awkward haircut curtaining his face. They’ve been friends since first year after the sorting ceremony had them sitting together at the Pukwudgie table, _Grakov_ next to _Graves_ on the first year roster. 

“ _Bozhe moi_ I think I may have to repeat fifth year,” Koschei groans, throwing up his arms, his accent noticeable because of his frustration. “I barely studied for my Potions final! I am going to be dead, for sure. How did you fare, my friend? Any luck with Charms?”

Credence shrugs. At best, he gets a B, at worst, he’ll have to retake the class next term and suffer Ulfius’ stern telling-to. They won’t be getting their report cards until the end of the month, and by then Credence will have had enough opportunity to catch up with Percival who will be on leave for the time being until he’s summoned away again, wherever, or whenever — in case Ulfius decides to deny him of his company just to punish him for his poor marks. It will be agony, of course, being stuck at the estate all summer, but at least he’ll be able to see Percival for part of it. 

“I think I did all right,” Credence says after a moment, making a vague hand gesture, hand wobbling. They fall into a comfortable silence after, Koschei half-dozing, his snores filling the quiet of the dorm room before he comes back to himself and starts to snort into wakefulness. “You are going to the Herons match, correct? Your uncle is taking you?” He rolls onto his side to watch Credence from across the room, his eyes twinkling in curiosity. 

Credence blushes and doesn’t look at him, pretending to be intrigued by the hangings of his drapes in the house’s honey gold colors. He shouldn’t be embarrassed that Koschei knows this. After all, he’s been talking about the Herons match ever since Percival had sent him that letter weeks ago, saying he had tickets, that he was finally coming back to New York, home again after so long. 

“Yes,” Credence says, folding his hands across his stomach. “We’re watching it together on Sunday.”

“You are close with your uncle?” Koschei asks tentatively. “Must be nice, to have that, family.”

“Yes,” Credence says again, blandly. He thinks of Percival when Koschei says the word — _family_ , and what that means. He has not thought about it in a long time, not since his circumstances have wholly changed. Not since — the Orphanage, the Church. Credence realizes that he hasn’t had a dream about his Ma in years. He’s never had the courage to call Percival uncle, and has even less of an inclination to call Ulfius father but still they’re the closest thing he has to a semblance of a family. He’s grateful for the life they’ve bestowed — even as a child he knew how influential they were and well-respected in the wizarding community — and everyday that he doesn’t go hungry, he questions whether all of it isn’t a dream. 

Koschei had grown up with two brothers and sisters, all of them dead now, war heroes, leaving him in the care of strangers — friends of his parents while they had been alive because he had no other family. He spends his summers working odd jobs, fishing for cod in Kingcove, Alaska, where his family is buried, racing sled dogs and earning his keep by selling driftwood on the beach when the tide brings with it treasures of flotsam.

“Next year you can visit me,” Credence promises, because he knows he owes Koschei that much; he’s been promising that every year but life — usually Ulfius, or Percival, or a number of other things like last minute holidays — keep getting in the way. “You know, but I’ll have to ask Ulfius first.”

“ _Da_ ,” Koschei agrees, before another contemplative silence. He huffs out a small laugh. “I look forward to that Credence, though I still think it is strange how you call your father by his given name.”

 

* 

Credence is on the first train back to New York. The carriages are packed with students eager to get home, crammed in groups of four or five, filling the compartments with more noise than Credence can bear on three hours of sleep. He shares his compartment with two other prefects, Hannah Blackberry and Theodore Munroe from Wampus and Thunderbird, both of whom are close to nodding off if their lolling heads are any indication.

 Credence can hardly keep his eyes open himself, having spent most of last night packing before taking a last minute jaunt to the shops for butterbeer and soft cakes. Koschei and Effie had wanted to celebrate the end of the term though the two of them still have essays to turn in the next morning. Effie would be spending her summer in Omaha with the rest of her family, whereas Koschei will he on the lookout for jobs to keep himself occupied in the meantime, and fed.

Credence rests his eyes for a second, waking with the New England countryside a long bright blur at the window. When comes to again, the compartment is already empty, the door open, the hall completely deserted. He grabs his satchel from the overhead cubby before racing out the door, leaping onto the concourse teeming with people buoying him in various directions. He collects his trunk, hauling it into a trolley he pushes across a sea of people barely parting to give him entry. He’d sent Percival a letter by owl two days ago, advising him of his schedule. Usually it’s a servant or house-elf tasked to accompany home, so he’s understandably nervous about breaking tradition.

 Then he sees him, standing in front of the newsstand, perusing the rippling headlines: _Chudley Canons winning 2-6, Roberts Certifying Tennessee Action on Suffrage, Europe Disturbed By American Action on Occupation Debt_. He’ll recognize those shoulders anywhere, that gait. Credence pushes past the crowd, trolley clack clacking on the platform tiles. He shouts but his voice doesn’t carry and Percival doesn’t hear him besides, his hands clasped behind him, his head tilted as if privy to a conversation. 

Credence abandons his trolley to  barrel straight into him and grab him by the sleeve. He turns him around. "Percival!" He says at the exact same moment Percival says his name. “Credence.” 

He places both hands on Credence’s shoulders, only a head taller now that Credence has had his growth spurt, one summer short and soft around the ribs, the next awkward and gangly with hardly any warning in between. 

“Let me get a good look at you. You’re taller — and you’ve grown out your hair too.” 

“I made prefect,” Credence tells him, because he feels it ought to be said. He’s worked very hard to make sure he’s noticed in school, especially since elections are almost upon them and all eyes will be on him again, whether he’d like it or not. 

Percival hums approvingly in his throat, clapping Credence on the shoulders and squeezing, and then grasping his face in his calloused hands until Credence feels his cheeks start to warm. 

Percival can’t seem to stop smiling and Credence feels suddenly thrillingly proud of himself. He’s made the decision to wear his best dress robes today, deep maroon with a velour lining to match Percival’s house colors; he doesn’t examine why. 

“I’m starting to feel old, I confess,” laughs Percival. “You’re a young man now. Look at you, no longer a boy.” 

“You’re not that old!” Credence protests.

“Oh but I am.” Percival seems to be convinced, his tone brooking no argument. “How was school?” 

“You always ask me how school is,” Credence says, rolling his eyes though he doesn’t really mind. 

“Well, let’s change the line of inquiry then,” Percival says. He taps Credence on the nose, the same way he used to all those years ago when Credence had been eleven and terrified of the creaking footsteps in the hall, when he’d been thirteen and did not make the school Quidditch team, his eyes swelling with tears.

“Credence, how have you been?”

Credence shrugs one shoulder, sighing when Percival releases his hold on him. He studies his face for a moment, the changes wrought in the months he’s been away, the deepened lines in his forehead and the corners of his eyes. There are more whites threading his hair than Credence last remembers seeing since they parted ways two Christmases ago, when Ulfius had thrown a dinner party at the Hippogriff Hotel inviting his electoral staff and his allies in MACUSA. 

But none of that really matters, Credence thinks, because how can it, he’s here now, the same Percival from collarbone to ankle, with the  limp that stuttered his long striding gait, the familiar kindness that softened his otherwise severe features. 

Percival lifts an eyebrow in question, waiting for an answer. “Swell,” Credence says, smiling softly when Percival smiles in return.”I’m doing just - swell.”

* 

Percival’s brownstone is located in the heart of Brooklyn, above a jeweller’s pawnshop, at the end of a long residential street in an affluent part of the neighborhood. Witches walk their dogs in the morning, and buy coffee and bagels in a number of shops rimming the street, gilded storefronts with luminous frosted windows, and quaint tables set up outside under huge striped awnings. They apparate — side-along — to the foyer where Percival hangs up his umbrella and hat on a coat stand, leading Credence further inside. He’s only been in Percival’s brownstone once, when he was thirteen and had run away from home after accidentally setting fire to Ulfius’ prized vitrine, a family heirloom that had been in the family for centuries. 

The brownstone smaller than Credence realizes, built for a lifelong bachelor: cozy rugs over mahogany flooring, rustic furniture with a number of brass bric-a-brac, a reading chair by the  fireplace, the stuffing bleeding from rips in the armrests.

In the living room is a hunting trophy mounted above the fireplace, its dead-eyed gaze steely and still as terrifying  to Credence as it once was.

There are no portraits decking the mantel unlike his study in the estate, filled floor to ceiling with illustrative accounts of the long and illustrious history of the Graves bloodline. Percival summons a pot of coffee from the kitchen, and with another wave of the hand a brown paper bag greasy with moisture unwraps itself in half to reveal a row of red cherry danishes bought from Madame Mariya’s Patisserie, still fresh and shiny with butter from the oven. 

Credence’s mouth waters but it’s only when Percival motions for him to sit at the table that he helps himself, dropping his satchel on the floor and setting down cups and saucers with a muttered spell. He still hasn’t mastered wandless magic though Percival has tried several times to teach him with varying levels of success. The most he can manage is lift objects no heavier than a book, and he can turn water hot if he concentrates hard enough. 

Percival sets a danish in front of Credence and then they eat, Credence’s fingers sticky with berry from the filling, his lips staining with glaze. He watches Percival eat methodically, pulling his bread apart into smaller chunks and then dipping it into his coffee to soften it. “Are you excited for the match on Sunday,” he asks at last, breaking his silence, watching Credence with a soft smile. 

“Yes, of course! I’ve been looking forward to it for weeks,” Credence tells him. He blushes, speaking before he catches himself. “It’s all I’ve been looking forward to.”

“Is it now,” Percival says, amused.

Credence hides his face behind his cup, biting the rim so that it makes his teeth ache just a little. “How was Bucharest?” he asks instead, staring at the contents of his coffee, stirring it so that crystals of sugar dissolve into the surface.

“Cold,” Percival considers, mopping crumbs off his lips with a table napkin, an efficient movement of the hand. “With more bureaucracy than I care to deal with. And Ilvermorny, Credence? How are your lessons?”

Credence doesn’t answer. When Percival prompts him with a look, one eyebrow raised, he caves and sullenly picks at his food. Percival always makes him feel like an errant little schoolboy and he isn’t quite sure how to feel about it, even at fifteen. “My marks are satisfactory,” he says evenly, because at least part of that is true. He doesn’t want to discuss it. He isn’t a stellar student. By all accounts, he’s average, and if it weren’t for his affiliation with the Graveses, he’ll be entirely forgettable.

“But you made prefect,” Graves reminds him with a soft smile. “That’s no small feat.”

“You were prefect too, and so was Ulfius,” Credence says. He can’t help the bite in his voice, or feeling sorry for himself, not being good enough, never being good enough.

“Those victories were hard won. You should be proud of yourself.” Percival lifts his coffee in salute. “I am, Credence.”

*

Credence rises at the crack of dawn the next day. The rest of the apartment is quiet, just the hum of the street outside, and a neighbor’s dog barking. The trill of morning birds make him think for a second that he’s still in school, tucked in his dorm bed an hour shy of classes, but then he rubs his eyes with a start and realizes where he is. Dawn slips into the slats between the curtains, throwing lines across the floor in rosy columns. 

Credence sits up in bed, taking inventory of the guest room, roughly twice the size of the walk-in closet at the estate and hardly furnished, with just a bed, nightstand, and a dresser to store his things. He dresses in pants and a shirt, padding barefoot into the kitchen to make himself coffee and start fixing a breakfast of bacon and eggs. At Ilvermorny, during his first year, he could hardly sleep a wink, the covers too scratchy, every creak and thump keeping him wide away at night so that he stumbled half-asleep to classes the next morning, late and accruing a number of detention slips.

Credence keeps the food hot with a spell as he goes about wandering through the rest of the apartment, touchings things curiously and running his hands over surfaces, every bit and bob and cranny. The other rooms are locked, because Graves is a tightly-guarded man, that much Credence knows, the type to mince his words and keep everything under lock and key unless it suited a purpose. It’s part of the hazards of the job; an auror has plenty of secrets. Often Credence wonders how much he really knows about him, if he knew him at all. 

Eventually, he finds Percival in his study, charming the unoiled hinges on the door so he can push it noiselessly open. There he is, slouched in his reading chair by the fire, in a dressing gown with a dark paisley pattern, where Credence had left him last night after their chess match, Percival letting him win the last round after the firewhisky had softened him. The fire has now burnt completely in the grate, leaving nothing but ash and soot. 

Percival clutches an empty tumbler in his right hand, his grip slack in sleep, his head tilted at an uncomfortable awkward angle. This is Percival, Credence thinks, when no one is watching. This is Percival asleep, his lips slightly parted in even steady breaths. It’s easy enough to forget, but the truth is he’s just a man.

Credence curls up in the chair opposite, watching the light outside change hues. He falls asleep soon after and wakes with a blanket thrown over him. It smells of pipe smoke and candlewax, the leather of books. He pushes his face into the fabric, buying himself more time until he absolutely has to get up. It’s already bright outside. There’s puttering coming from the kitchen. Credence stretches. He folds the blanket before following the smell of breakfast. 

*

Percival, of course, has the best seats in the house. They climb what feels like a thousand steps to find them, the executive lounge, it’s called, according to the glossy lettering on their tickets, a cosy suite with floor to ceiling windows, the view breathtaking it makes Credence gape. There’s a liquor shelf, a uniformed man pushing a trolley of tarts and eclairs to a number of waiting patrons flounced in comfortable chairs tucked in corners. Unlike the rest of the boxes in the stadium, the floor is carpeted, not sticky with soda spill and littered with food wrappers. Credence makes himself comfortable in one of the padded booths as Percival makes smalltalk with some of the other patrons, high-ranking officials or else those he knows from MACUSA, clasping them on the elbow or shoulder. 

There’s a soft thump as the chair opposite Credence is suddenly occupied. Credence looks up and is hit with a brief jolt of recognition. A riot of curly brown hair and a lopsided commiserating smile, twinkling blue eyes. But he can’t seem to make sense of where he’s seen these features before. “Newt,” the man introduces himself, and when Credence doesn’t shake his hand at first, he asserts, “ _Scamander_. Are you here with the Director?”

“The Director?” Credence repeats. 

“Graves,” Newt corrects himself. “He’s your uncle, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” Credence says, better now at hiding his awkwardness. He’s never really thought of Percival as his uncle. “Yes, he is.” They lapse into an awkward silence, and Credence watches Newt surreptitiously from the corner of his eye, struggling to remember why his face and name seem familiar to him both.

“I’m not a very big fan of Quidditch, I’m afraid,” Newt begins, conversationally, fidgeting in his seat and having a bit of a look around. “It’s all very — _brutal_ to me to be perfectly honest. But my brother seems to be under the impression that it’s the most riveting sport in the world second only to wizard backgammon so now I find myself here, about to bear witness to what I’m told will be _history_ but in reality is just pure mindless carnage.” He grins when he catches Credence’s eye. “I see my joke fell flat. You don’t remember me at all, do you? We met at Christmas at your father’s party — you were very young. I’m Theseus’ younger brother.”

_Theseus_. Credence’s heart does a strange heavy thing. He remembers it now: Theseus — Percival’s friend, spending a weekend at the estate during his second summer back from Ilvermorny, accompanying them to a fishing trip and teaching Credence how to brew a healing draught; his easy rapport with everybody including the servants. The smoking jacket hung over the grate in Graves’ study, dripping with water from the lake. His pipe on the mantel. 

“Anyway,” Newt continues, turning his gaze back to the pitch. “You’re looking rather well. Fifth year, correct? At Ilvermorny?”

Credence nods. “Are you going to tell me how it’s somehow inferior to Hogwarts?” A joke too — though he realizes too late that his timing may have been a little off as it takes half a minute for Newt to respond. 

“No,” Newt laughs. “No, of course not. I know a few good people teaching there, and some of my — _my friends_ are alumnae.”

Credence looks up when he feels a heavy hand on his shoulder: Percival, squeezing firmly but not enough to hurt, a placid smile on his face that looks tight-lipped. He has a glass of something amber in one hand, alcohol, it smells like. “I see you’ve bumped into Newt.” 

Percival nods at him, and Newt looks visibly discomfited before shooting him a polite smile in return. “Director.”

_Director?_ Credence thinks.

“Please — just Percival.”

“Well, _just_ Percival—” It’s Theseus who speaks next, clapping Percival on the back and embracing him like they haven’t seen hide nor hair of each other in years. He’s just like Credence remembers, but older, more practically dressed in muted colors, a suede bowtie. Credence ducks out of the way when Theseus reaches out to ruffle the top of his head, as if he’s still twelve years old, as if they’re actually friends. He shoots him a sullen look that goes completely unnoticed though he glances in Newt’s direction when he hears him clear his throat and cough. 

Theseus accepts the drink Percival pours him, taking a long pull. “How are you, old chap?” he says. “I thought you were in Bucharest?”

“It worries me how privy you are to my whereabouts,” Percival tells him. “That information is supposed to be classified.”

“Well, I have my sources,” Theseus says, clasping him on the shoulder. “As you may very well know by now. And I heard about your promotion.”

“A result of my tenure and nothing more,” Percival answers easily.

“Well, it suits you, in any case.” Theseus assures him. “ _Director of Magical Law Enforcement._ Has a wonderful ring to it, doesn’t it, Newt? We’ve got friends in high places now. I even hear it comes with a corner office. Enjoying the view, Percival?”

Percival squeezes Credence’s shoulder again. “Depends who you ask.”

*

“I didn’t know you were promoted,” Credence says, later, when they apparate back to the apartment, shedding their dress robes in the den, Percival spelling the windows open to let the breeze in. He unbuttons his cufflinks, rolls up his sleeves, suspenders hanging loosely at his sides, the throat of his shirt open, a vision surrounded by the mundanity of his own domain, the tumult of uncleared breakfast on the table, Credence’s jacket on the sofa in a crumpled heap. 

“You didn’t tell me,” Credence says. 

Percival looks almost surprised at the — _outburst_ , Credence thinks. Though Credence tries to feel less betrayed and sound less accusing. Theseus had taken them to ice cream at the pier after the game and it struck Credence how much Theseus knew about Percival that Percival had been keeping from him; he’d been Director for a month, there was even a party thrown in his honor, which Ulfius had paid for and planned. He’d been back in New York even longer than that, undergoing therapy for his leg which he now didn’t need a cane for, most times. And he only wrote to Credence once during that time. Once. 

“I didn’t think it would interest you,” Percival says, his mind sounding like it was elsewhere, distracted.

“Why wouldn’t it interest me?”

The question is bold, unexpected. Percival, Credence knows, is not used to questions like this that challenge his authority, that throw Credence in a different light. He’s not twelve anymore, no longer a boy, afraid of every bump and creak in the dark. 

Percival looks at him, halfway into pouring himself a ginger ale. “You’ve got plenty on your plate, Credence. And shouldn’t worry about the foibles of an old man like me.” He pats him on the head — the same way Theseus had earlier — dismissive, and Credence darts out of the way, staring him down. Then he looks away guiltily, feeling properly chastised, humbled by the questioning look in Percival’s gaze. 

Percival touches him on the elbow. “Are you all right, Credence?”

“It’s the heat,” Credence says, the lie making his throat and eyes scratchy. “It’s making me dizzy.”

*

September comes and goes. Credence goes back to school, and the term comes to an end sooner than expected though it crawls at a snail’s pace after winter and spring, Credence slogging through his lessons, half-asleep. He passes all his classes without incident, Koschei is voted captain of the Pukwudgie Quidditch team, and Effie makes Head Girl. 

There are a few letters from Percival at Christmas, two lines, carefully inscribed on cream colored stationery with the MACUSA seal monogrammed into the soft paper. Credence sends a letter back but it goes unanswered — he had asked if he could spend the holidays at Percival’s while Ulfius was busy with his presidential campaign and he had the estate all to himself. Some of the servants would be allowed home for Christmas, leaving him in the company of a few house-elves. 

Credence thinks about sending Percival another letter, thinking he may have simply missed the first one, even going as far as pulling out a fresh sheet of parchment and refilling his ink pot. In the end, he weakens, and buries himself in schoolwork instead. Advanced Potions gives him a hard enough time for a class he enjoys taking and he can’t afford Ulfius’ disappointment— not when he’s under a lot of pressure and much less forgiving because of the campaign. Seraphina Picquery, an old school rival, is running against him for president and polls have swung in her favor in the recent weeks, according to The New York Ghost.

Credence spends his Christmas at Ilvermorny, keeping Koschei company, sleeping in all day and sneaking Koschei into the prefects’ bathroom on the third floor.

They steal ginger bread cookies baking in the kitchens, eating them in the common room in front of the fire, cutting them with smuggled butter beer from the Raven’s Wing, a distillery in town. Percival sends him a new set of dress robes that he doesn’t need for Christmas, nothing but a card attached that said _Merry Christmas Credence_ in handwriting that decidedly didn’t look like his _._

Koschei had snorted and offered to sell them to make good use of them. “These robes aren’t even in season anymore,” he’d told Credence, watching Credence parade around the room in the robes, ruffles and badly-cut hemlines, and too-small sleeves, a confused scowl on his face. “And they’re for children. _Bozhe moi_! Does he know you are no longer a first year?” 

They had a good laugh about it, over the break, but secretly it frustrated Credence that Percival didn’t know what to get him. Last year it had been a Clean Sweep Mark II, covered in wrapping paper and delivered at breakfast. It never got to see the light of day again after Credence had taken it out for a spin in the Quidditch pitch and nearly broke his nose trying to dodge a quaffle Koschei sent hurtling his way. He was neither athletic nor interested in the latest fashion and Percival didn’t seem to realize that. On Credence’s birthday last April, he’d bought him an elaborate set of pen knives to trim the nibs of his quills as they wore down with use, short, sharp blades with a sharp point, suiting them perfectly to their purpose, but elegant enough that the enameled hilt with an intricately patterned pommel drew attention. 

Credence didn’t have the heart to tell him he would simply have no use for them, that none of Percival’s gifts had ever been of any interest to him, accumulating dust in his school trunk and closet. Still, he coveted them as keepsakes, taking the knives out for cleaning with a rag and oil, dusting the Clean Sweep Mark II buried so deep in his closet that the paint still looked brand new. And the robes — running his hands through the soft material, laying them out on his bed, shaking out the wrinkles before folding them each by hand, careful not to let them crease.

*

Ulfius agrees to letting Koschei and Effie spend the summer at the estate on the condition that Credence keep himself out of the limelight. This means he is to stay on the estate at all times, for the entirety of the summer, keep his head down, and not wander the city giving interviews or showing his face to the hungry press. It works in Credence’s favor — he mostly stays indoors during the summer anyway, reading and furiously writing letters to Koschei, and Effie, sometimes Percival when he doesn’t visit or promises to visit but forgets. There’s nothing to do, most days, except read, practice the pianoforte, engage the moving portraits in conversation, remain largely ignored by the household staff except when Ulfius remembers to eat dinner with him. This year, it’ll be different. It rains on the train back to New York, and the rain seems almost portentous, fat wet drops that pound the roof like glass. 

Effie won’t be joining them until the end of the week after she spends time with her family so it is Koschei who takes up the guest room across the hallway, filling it up with his school trunk and clothes, making himself right at home, much to the chagrin of the servants. They spend their days swimming in the lake, drying themselves under the sun until the ground bakes their skin. 

Credence shows Koschei around the manor, to the levels underground housing dusty tomes and portraits covered in sheets, the library with the books he has yet to read, and the portrait of Gondolphus Graves with his hands steepled in his lap, and the high Graves forehead, his eyebrow lifting when Koschei stumbles into the room after Credence and remarking about how Ilvermorny had gone to the dogs. 

Credence shows him the pen where the goats and chickens were kept and fed, but for some reason never lets him near the greenhouse, thinking of it as a secret space even if it were visible to the eyeline if one looked up from the lake. 

He thinks of Percival and the summer they had spent rebuilding it from the ground up, furnishing it and cleaning the windows. Now it sits unused and neglected, lonely like a waiting dog.

The rain comes down without mercy for the first few days, cutting their swimming short. Credence and Koschei stay inside the manor and watch it from the windows of the library, listening to the gramophone judder and stop as it reaches the end of a record. On the fourth day, the skies clear again and they make a beeline to the lake as soon as light touches the ground, eating sandwiches prepared by servants, cross-legged on the shore and waiting for their skin to peel raw with sunburns.

Koschei, almost big as a barge, hoists Credence over his shoulder and tosses him into the water, sending ripples across the surface as he laughs and laughs. He spells fistsfuls of water to pelt Credence, and Credence retaliates in kind by blasting him with a half-hearted tickling charm. He breaks out of it and barrels into Credence to wrestle him to the ground, tickling him in the ribs, under the arms, until Credence can breathe no more, gasping and kicking and pleading for him to stop, his eyes wet with tears of laughter. They’re interrupted from their silliness by a servant who coughs and looks this way and that before speaking in a timid voice. “Master Percival says to keep it down. The ruckus is disturbing his sleep.”

Koschei looks at Credence, then at the manor just beyond them, probably thinking about the distance, the improbability of this claim. “But—” he says, and Credence sits up and stops him, hand on his shoulder to look at the servant —Abigail, new to the household, freckled and young, with fair hair like Effie’s but coarser and unkempt. “He’s home?” Credence says. “Since when?”

“Since this morning,” Abigail says.

“Why didn’t anyone think to tell me?”

Abigail seems at a loss for words, looking at Koschei fretfully and paling before returning her gaze to Credence. “I—I’m sorry, sir. Master Percival said not to tell you. He went out, looking for you, perhaps he wanted to surprise you, but he suddenly decided to take his breakfast in his room, sir, and said he had gotten a headache.”

She trembles under his gaze.

“Sorry, I — I didn’t mean to raise my voice,” Credence says. “I’ll see him when he wakes. You may leave. Thank you.”

Koschei elbows him in the side, pushing dripping waiter out of his face, his expression somber, chastised. “Your uncle is back. Which one is he?”

“I’ve only one,” Credence says, and casts his gaze at the manor, looming over the lake like a shadow — then at the window of Percival’s room, completely shuttered like an eye.

*

Credence doesn’t see him until late that afternoon after Koschei dares him to steal liquor from the wine cabinet. Credence slips into the study, intent on making a hasty exit, spelling the lock open and tucking an enormous handle of Ulfius’ best whisky under his arm. He charms the lock shut again and is almost out the door when he catches sight of Percival, watching him from the hall outside, eyeing him in surprise. It’s been months — nearly a year since they saw each other, a whole summer past, half a dozen letters sitting in Credence’s school trunk, held together by a piece of twine. 

“Credence,” Percival says. “What are you doing in there?” He charms the lights back on and Credence almost jumps out of his skin, stowing the whisky behind him, out of view. Percival is in trousers, a white linen shirt, a pair of dark blue suspenders. His hair is out of its usual neat coif, loose all over his face like he’d just run a hand through it.

Credence is overcome with the urge to, to — he doesn’t know; whatever it is, he tamps the feeling down, letting his sullenness take over, his ire. When Percival enters the study, Credence loses his grip on the whisky and it shatters into pieces on the floor behind him. The sound startles the both of them and Credence makes the mistake of taking another step back, grinding his heel on the glass shards, smearing blood on the carpet. He says a bad word that his Ma would have washed his mouth out for, and hops around in pain until Percival sets him to rights and cleans up the mess with a wave of the hand. He grabs Credence’s wrist, leading him back to the sofa, all the while berating him for not being careful. 

“I don’t need your help,” Credence tells him, feeling petulant, shrugging off his hand. He watches blood drip on the carpet and doesn’t bother spelling it clean. Let Percival worry about that, he thinks. Let Percival — he clenches his teeth as a twinge of pain travels up his leg. 

“Credence, your foot is bleeding. You’re far from ‘all right’, my boy,” Percival tells him. “Come here and let me take a look at you. It doesn’t do at all to be stubborn.”

“I’m not—”

“Being stubborn?” Percival smiles mildly. 

He arranges Credence on the sofa, taps the tip of his wand against Credence’s ankle raised on a pillow and touches the side of his foot. Bits of glass dissolve on the pillow like sugar, leaving pinpricks of blood on the underside of Credence’s foot. He wiggles his toes and Percival chuckles. Credence swallows when Percival’s hand doesn’t leave his foot. 

“You didn’t tell me you were coming back,” he says, watching Percival clean his foot with a rag he’d conjured out of nowhere, his movement repetitive, clinical. 

“You didn’t tell me you were bringing along a friend,” Percival says. “Stealing from the liquor cabinet? Of all the mischief you’ve been up to all summer.” He shakes his head, an irreverent gleam in his eye.

Credence doesn’t answer, the back of his neck red with embarrassment. He’s always been good. He’s always done his best. He’s always made sure he never stepped out of line.

“How are you, Credence?” Percival asks, cutting him off from his rumination.

Credence bites the inside of his cheek before answering. He hates that question, how it doesn’t mean anything at all now that he’s started to cotton on. “I’m doing well, thank you.”

“Credence.” Credence knots his hands into fists. “ _Credence,_ ” Percival says again, firmly this time, his hand cradling Credence’s foot. “Look at me when I’m talking to you.”

“You didn’t write me back,” Credence says. He sounds accusing but he can’t help himself, the words tipping out his mouth faster than he can think about them, running together until they stumble all over themselves like errant children and he’s babbling like a right fool. “I didn’t even know you were coming home, either. No one tells me anything. I thought —” _You thought what_ , Credence thinks. That you were friends? That he was family? He can’t seem to make up his mind, doesn’t even understand why he’s so upset, why the back of his eyes are starting to burn, his eyelids getting heavier and heavier. 

“I should have written back,” Percival agrees. “You’re right.”

“Then why hadn’t you?”

“I was — I was otherwise preoccupied, I suppose,” Percival says, and it is a lie, and they both know it. 

_That’s one way to put it_ , Credence thinks, but he says instead, “I understand.” He rises to his feet and heads for the door.

“Where are you going?” Percival asks him. 

Credence doesn’t answer.

*

Effie joins them the week after, just as promised, throwing herself at them with a hug and kiss on the cheek each when they meet her at the gate. Koschei reddens, digging a rut on the ground with the toe of his shoe. He’s always had a soft spot for her; Credence catches him watching her at times the way a dog watches a plate of pie cooling on the windowsill. Ever since Koschei had shot up four inches, and Effie had made Head Girl and gotten together with Richard Potts, Koschei could never seem to look her straight in the eye, his posture shrinking like an embarrassed child.

“Look at this!” Effie shouts, swinging on a rope out over the center of the lake, the ruffles of her red swimming costume bouncing in the breeze. Credence is blinded by the sun in his eyes and doesn’t see Effie go under. When she doesn’t surface, Koschei calls out to her, his voice echoing across the stillness of the lake. He says her name again but doesn’t get a response, and for a long time nothing moves or ripples in the water. They dive into the lake one after the other, frantic with worry. When she emerges a second later, she throws her head back and laughs. She slaps Koschei on the shoulder. “Did I scare you? Did I? Did I? Oh, you’re too sweet.” 

Koschei is angry for the rest of the day, in a sulk, and Credence watches Effie attempt to make it up to him by taking him by the arm and dragging him aside under the shade of an oak tree, teasing him to get him on her side again.

They disappear, later, into the manor on the pretext of getting changed, leaving Credence basking in the sun, his arm pillowed behind his head. He’d forgotten to layer sun lotion over his face and can feel the spots on his cheeks he’d missed begin to sting. He falls into a light doze and wakes up to the sky boiling over in rain. It takes less than a minute for it to turn into a complete deluge. 

The rain is almost a welcome reprieve, cutting through the muggy heat, turning the soil a darker shade and filling the air with the scent of green things. He’s soaked through the bone by the time he makes it back to the manor, his swimming costume translucent and hanging over him heavy and dripping with rain. He’d have charmed himself dry but he’d left his wand in his bedroom. 

There’s a puddle fully formed in the study, where he’d climbed through the open window, shimmying out of his swimming shirt behind the ornate divider doubling as a dressing screen, a gift, Ulfius had told Credence, from his father to his mother — they didn’t know where else to put it after she died but it seemed to suit the study just fine, blending well with the decor so they kept it there, next to the self-playing harpsichord. 

Credence makes to grab for the dressing gown hanging on a nearby chair but then hears the door open and close and quickly hides behind the screen, shivering, not breathing at all. Then he feels ludicrous because he knows for a fact who it is without looking, and there’s really no reason to hide. 

“Credence?” Percival, though he stops before he can come any closer. There is illumination, from the flickering lamps outside, heavy shadows across the wall where the trees obstruct the light. The screen is hand-made in Paris, sturdy walnut frames with intricate detailing, curlicues carved into the paneling to allow the passage of light. Credence can see Percival through the tiny gaps, his body unmoving where he’s standing by the door. He wonders if Percival can see him, outlined against the lamplight, dripping lake water and rain all over the floor. 

Wind blows through the window he’s left open, rattling as rain whips through the curtains like sails. Credence feels suddenly hyper-aware of his own body, every inch of exposed skin, the film of hair on his legs and between his thighs. 

“We need to stop running into each other like this,” Percival says, turning away. He charms the window shut behind Credence, and Credence jumps, almost knocking the screen aside with his foot. 

He curls his toes into the carpet, and darts a hand out to pull the dressing gown off the back of the chair. He emerges only when he’s properly dressed, though the silk clings to his damp skin uncomfortably. He smells like pipe smoke, and whisky. He smells like Percival. He ties the laces of his gown more tightly around himself, feeling suddenly self-conscious.

Percival looks at him for a long moment, then away, clearing his throat. “I didn’t know you had more friends arriving.”

“I only have two friends,” Credence says. “You’ve met them, haven’t you?”

“Just the other one — Koschei.”

“Yes,” Credence says, his words clipped. “There’s Effie, too. She’d just arrived this morning.”

“She’s a fine girl, from what I gather.” Percival says. Neither of them move, for a time. “Do you like her?”

“She’s just a friend,” Credence says, wondering about this line of questioning. Percival has never really cared before, why start now?

“Of course,” Percival says. “And what about the other one, that boy—”

Credence looks at him, waiting for him to continue but he never does. 

“You’ll join me for dinner tonight,” Percival says. It’s not a question though at first it’s disguised as one.

“I wasn’t aware I was invited.”

“ _Credence_.”

“Sorry. Sorry I — I misspoke,” Credence says, stumbling on his words, clumsy again out of impulse.Stupid, stupid, stupid, he thinks, hating his own weakness. He’s been getting careless, too familiar with Percival. “It won’t happen again,” he says. 

Percival catches him by the arm on his way out the door, his grip firm and unyielding. Credence meets his gaze, waiting for him to do something compelling to break the silence. Instead Percival squeezes his arm twice and sighs audibly, an unreadable look on his face as he shakes his head and lets Credence go. “I’ll see you at dinner. Wear something —” His gaze slides over to where Credence’s robe is parted, baring the outline of his ribs. Percival pulls the material over his chest to cover him, meeting Credence’s gaze with a soft frown. “Something nice. We have guests tonight. Suit and tie, if you please.”

Credence nods and excuses himself from the room, thinking suit and tie suit and tie, _suitandti_ e. His heart beats like a hammer inside his chest. He thinks of Percival, the look on his face, the weight of his hand on Credence’s arm. At the end of the hall, Credence glances over his shoulder watching as Percival balls a hand into a fist and spells the floors dry.

*

The guests have already arrived by the time Credence and his friends have finished dressing, coats collected by the servants, hats and gloves too. Effie had despaired over what to wear because she’d only packed the necessities, charming a sun dress to evening wear at the best of her ability. 

Credence has attended enough dinner parties in his life that he doesn’t have to think about what to wear anymore, just pulls whatever is available out of his closet, the latest suit being a gift from Ulfius on his sixteenth birthday, the buttons in the shape of gryphons, the trousers nipping him in the waist. Koschei doesn’t have anything to wear so Credence rifles through the boxes in his closet — Percival’s old things lost among the detritus of even more boxes of old things like Gareth’s childhood photographs. He’s the third Graves brother, little Gareth, with the chipped front tooth, who never made it past second year at Ilvermorny. He’d died when he was just a boy, some say on Percival’s watch, though others claim it had been an accident. No one ever talks about him so Credence doesn’t ask, but he knows enough to understand that his death had devastated the bloodline. When Ulfius had taken him in all those years ago, he’d been the same age as Gareth when he had died. 

Koschei ends up wearing one of Percival’s old suits, charmed to fit his shorter stature but broader shoulders. They linger by the staircase, eavesdropping on the conversation downstairs, before a servant calls them down for dinner and they arrange themselves appropriately, fussing over their clothing, keeping a straight face.

They have familiar faces over for dinner — Tina, from the Wand Division, Seraphina Picquery, Ulfius’ opponent, the only other candidate stupid enough, Ulfius had said once, to run against him for president, her long dark hair wrapped in a shimmering turban. Then there’s Newt, not meeting anyone’s eyes at the table though seated very comfortably next to Tina. There are two other faces Credence doesn’t recognize, subordinates of Percival. Dinner is roast duck and mashed garlic potatoes, a walnut salad and assorted cakes and pudding which Koschei digs into heartily.

Tilly announces the arrival of the last guest for the evening before coffee is served. Standing at the doorway is Theseus because of course it can’t have been anyone else.

*

Credence is twelve when Percival teaches him how to ride a broom, to take a bludger to the face and ride through a dizzying hoop in the air until he makes himself sick from the height. It’s only Quidditch, Percival tells him later, healing his black eye by swiping his right hand over Credence’s face, his other hand gripping his chin gently. 

“Let me see,” he’d said but Credence had refused to face him at all, keeping his chin tilted stubbornly down. He couldn’t look Percival in the eye out of embarrassment, his right eye swollen shut and throbbing like when Ma had used to beat him. He’d stopped himself from crying like a sniveling fool as soon as his broom touched ground but he was so upset that he had no aptitude for Quidditch. He could barely catch the snitch in time as it darted and breezed past his outstretched hand. He’d already gotten used to Ulfius’ disappointment, but it was nothing compared to meeting Percival’s regretful gaze. 

Percival clicks his tongue. “That looks nasty. I remember my first time playing Quidditch. I broke an arm. Took two nights to grow all the bones back with a little Skele-gro. It hurt like pulling teeth.” 

Credence looks at him in panic, magic still a new concept to him even after two years in Ilvermorny learning how to harness his. 

Percival laughs. He’d played as a Chaser, back in Ilvermorny through his third year and seventh. Credence had seen evidence of this, the house cup in his closet, his old crimson uniform folded in a corner and the number in faded gold lettering on the back: _Graves, 19_. He’d have been a sight to behold, swooping through the air on his broomstick, fast like a sparrow. _Like lighting_ — Credence’s mind supplies. But he somehow can’t imagine Percival any younger than he is now, without whites in his hair, or a few threaded into his eyebrows.

After Percival finishes with Credence’s black eye, he starts on Credence’s bruises next, rolling up the sleeve of his shirt and inspecting the mottled skin where a bludger has hit him. Percival had enlisted the help of a couple of servants who were more than happy to shirk their duties for a chance to play the popular wizarding sport whose concept still eluded Credence. Koschei, a friend in Ilvermorny, talked about nothing else except Quidditch and owned a collection of Quidditch cards he kept in a tin box, with the names and statistics of all his favourite players.

“I was rough on you,” Percival says, running his hand over the purpling skin. “We should have started with the basics. I’m sorry I got ahead of myself, Credence.”

“It doesn’t hurt,” Credence says, not completely a lie. He shrugs one shoulder and watches raptly as his skin turns new again. “I’m used to it.”

“You mean with your mother?” Percival asks, after a long silence. 

Credence bites his lip and nods. It feels like a lifetime ago but he still remembers his Ma, though her face only comes to him in brief glimpses like a half-remembered dream. What he remembers vividly is the worn leather of a belt lashing his skin, her rolled up newspaper as it struck him on the back of the head and rattled the insides of his skull. 

“You shouldn’t be used to pain. You might think you deserve it, Credence. But you don’t,” Percival says. “Do you believe me?”

Credence doesn’t know. Percival says a lot of things he isn’t sure whether to believe, like how Credence is special, and unique. He says Credence is an exceptional young man but this has yet to be reflective of his performance in school where he has trouble passing his classes or staying awake long enough to remember what was being taught. He’d thought that by attending a school for people like him — wizards — he would finally be so sure about his place in the world, that he would feel like he belonged. But none of it felt right, still, and he was on the outside, looking in, an outsider even in Ilvermorny with only one friend.

“Ma says pain makes you stronger,” Credence mumbles.

Percival flinches but carries on smoothly, patting him on the head. “But pain isn’t always necessary, Credence. Now experience — there. Experience makes you stronger, and time.”

“Credence,” Percival says, cradling Credence’s jaw when Credence stares at his lap again, at the fists bunched on his knees, his eyes heavy with a fresh wave of tears. “Quidditch isn’t for everyone. And you can’t expect to do well on your first try; nobody ever does. There are still so many things to learn; I have a few tricks up my sleeve yet. Come.” He stands to his full height and holds out his hand. When Credence takes it after a moment of hesitation, his cheeks burning bright red, Percival grins and leads him back inside. His hand, much bigger than Credence’s, rough with callouses in places, envelop Credence’s curled fingers, his entire fist almost.

“Have you ever played cards?” Credence shakes his head. “No, no I suppose not. I’d be worried if you have.”

He summons an old set of playing cards from one of the bedrooms upstairs, and it comes flying into his hand like a baseball. The pack is old, yellow with age, but still good, with detailed pictures that flashed and moved on the back: dignified kings and queens, and on one a court jester wearing a funny hat with bells attached to it. Percival lays them out on the table one by one and teaches Credence what each card is called, what they’re for, having Credence repeat them after him. 

On the third day, they play solitaire in the greenhouse after the first of potions experiments gone wrong, a hushed silence over the room as still as sleep. Credence loses nine times out of ten though he suspects that Percival lets him win the last one. Percival beats him twenty games straight. They run through Texas Hold ‘Em, Gin Rummy, Poker, and Credence loses every time, huffing in frustration and feeling despair well within him. Percival leaves him with the cards, tells him to practice, which he does on his own, or in between lessons that summer, muttering _lumos_ under his breath before he goes to bed at night so he can study the cards fanned across his covers in the dark.

“We used to play this back in —” Percival says and stops.

Credence doesn’t look up from his hand: an ace of spades, the king yawning listlessly and blinking at him. “Ilvermorny?” he prompts. When he doesn’t get a response, he asks in a smaller voice, “ _The war?_ ”

Percival looks surprised at the gumption but he smiles sharply and takes a sip of his drink. The ice clinks when he sets it down on the table. “No one ever tells you about the waiting.”

“Is that how you hurt your leg?” Credence asks, meeting Percival’s gaze for the first time. “In the war? Is that why you —” he bites his lip at the shadowed look on Percival’s face. “You have a cane,” Credence says. “That you use sometimes.”

“I hurt my leg by acting like a right fool is what happened,” Percival says. He has a gleam in his eye Credence has yet to learn how to interpret. “War is never easy, Credence. Nor is it prestigious or glamorous. There’s a lot the schoolbooks don’t tell you. No one is quite the same after it and there’s no getting your old life back.”

“I understand,” Credence says, even though he doesn’t. Still — it feels like something he ought to say to ease the troubled crease between Percival’s brows.

“I used to think I did too,” Percival says. He lays down his cards on the table and Credence pouts and sighs.

“Another game?” Percival laughs. 

Credence finishes the last dredges of his pumpkin juice, nodding eagerly. “Yes, yes please.”

“Here, shuffle these for me.” Percival hands him the deck of cards. Credence tries to shuffle them like he’s seen Percival do with quick efficient hands, but the cards end up flying about and spilling across his lap. He tries again, and again, but he’s clumsy and not as smooth as Percival when he does it.

“I’ll show you how it’s done,” Percival says. There’s no mockery in his tone, or impatience, but something that makes a part of Credence soften and spread with warmth. Their hands touch when Percival asks for the cards back. His movements are fast, graceful. Credence watches, rapt with attention at the fluidity with which his fingers move, the speed. He grins and claps his hands, looking up to see Percival grinning too. 

“Now kiss the cards, Credence.”

“What?” Credence flusters. “ _Why?_ ”

“For luck,” Percival explains, holding the deck toward him. “It’s a superstition, but you never know what might happen.” He smiles, and Credence inches forward across the table, stretching his cramped legs. The chair scrapes the floor when he leans all the way forward and rests his forearms on the table, puckering up and closing his eyes. His lips touch paper, tasting dust, and he smells spilled whiskey. When Percival thumps him gently on the forehead with the entire deck, his eyes snap open with a gasp.

Percival laughs. “You’re sweet,” he says. “But you need to stop doing what everyone tells you to do.”

“But you—”

“Not even me, Credence. Make no exceptions.”

Credence pouts. Percival raises a hand, a signal that the subject is already closed. Credence nods and doesn’t look him in the eye after that. They play three more games of Blackjack, and Percival gives Credence the last round even though he insists that Credence had won the game fair and square. It’s morning again by the time they finish, the horizon turning a rosy dawn. Credence dozes off at the table, the surface charmed to a green baize to replicate a poker table, his cheek rubbing the material comfortably, his mouth open just a fraction. He hears, distantly, Percival calling his name, attempting to wake him by shaking his shoulder gently but he’s too deeply asleep to make sense of anything, to move. He’s only half-aware of Percival pulling him upwards, of listing to his feet and voicing out a mumbled complaint, and then Percival hefting him, as if he weighed nothing at all, into his arms, cupping the back of his head to tuck between his neck and shoulder. 

Credence does what he’s told and wraps his legs around Percival’s waist, and he gets a noseful of his cologne when he buries his face in Percival’s shoulder — a tangy hint of something, already fading after the course of a long day, something bitter, familiar like pipe smoke. He breathes him in with a small shudder. The next minute, Credence finds himself in his bed, the covers tucked around him, the curtains closed to keep out the sun. The pillows have been arranged to his liking. There’s a weight at the foot of the bed, someone cupping his ankle. 

“Sleep well, Credence,” says a deep voice. And just like that, as if under a powerful spell, Credence falls into a long dreamless sleep.

 

* * *

 

 

Credence feels petty, and sullen, and all throughout dinner shoots Theseus looks across the table. He doesn’t understand why he’s never liked the man. He’s a friend of Percival’s — they fought in the war together, years ago — and Percival calls him his comrade, his brother in arms. He’s been nothing but kind to Credence, sharing stories of what Percival had been like during their time together at the front, how surly he’d been most of the time, smoking packs of smuggled no-maj cigarettes one after the other, sharing his rations with others who needed it more, how he’d saved a man and nearly lost his leg as a result. He’d been awarded a medal — for bravery, or valor, or something akin to that. Credence has his stories muddled with the ones he’s read in old newspaper clippings in the closet. 

The kind of Percival Theseus paints is different from the man he is now: brash and bold, he’d been, with an easy laugh. Maybe that’s why Credence doesn’t like Theseus — because he knew Percival before he did, and reminded him that Percival had once been a different man before. 

You are a boy and then become a man, Ulfius had said to him, when he’d taken Credence to dinner on his sixteenth birthday. You learn what parts of yourself to hide. Maybe that’s what it was, Percival hiding parts himself so no one not even Credence could find him.

It’s time for adults to do the talking, because they migrate to the library without inviting Credence and his friends. Credence, Koschei, and Effie head back upstairs with full bellies, but Credence lingers on the last step, watching Percival disappear down the hall. He hesitates, wanting to follow, to be part of that world he knows nothing about — Percival’s world, behind that closed door. 

Effie calls his name from the top of the stairs. “Let’s play cards,” she offers. “You’re great at that, aren’t you?” She tips forward, over the banister, her hair like a long thick rope. 

Credence looks at her, blinking out of his daze. Percival had taught him how to play cards, he remembers. He’s terrific at Blackjack, and can beat anyone except the man who’d taught him. It’s the only thing he knows how to do, now that Credence thinks about it. And that, he thinks, is almost laughably tragic. 

But he’s so distracted throughout the night that he loses to Koschei’s hand on the first round. “Now you’re just mocking us by not playing your best,” Effie says, sticking out her tongue. As a consequence, they dare him — _again_ — to steal liquor from Ulfius’ cabinet. This time, he’s successful, with the guests preoccupied in the study. He’s almost disappointed Percival doesn’t catch him again, holding the bottle in full view, cradling it like a heavy child against his chest and taking the stairs at a leisurely pace. He isn’t sure what he’s expecting — for Percival to admonish him? Punish him? He’s not in his Ma’s house anymore, and Percival has never raised his hand. 

They decimate the contents of the bottle throughout the evening, Ulfius liquor strong and burning down their throats, making their heads full and their fingertips tingle. Credence feels heady, the same sensation he gets when he stays up too late to finish his homework and watches the day slide seamlessly into the next, too awake to sleep anymore but too tired to get up and move. They play a half-hearted game of gin rummy, falling asleep one after the other, Effie first, primly on the sitting chair in Credence’s bedroom, then Koschei next, watching her with a wistful look on his face. 

Credence doesn’t sleep at all, his eyes trained to the ceiling, his fingers folded on his chest, supine on the floor.It’s late, morning again judging from the light outside and how it softens the darkness. He closes his eyes and tries to think about nothing at all. He gets up, though it takes him a second to come to grips with himself, staggering to his full height. His vision swims. He closes the door behind him, resolutely keeping his mind blank. His feet take him across the other end of the hall, to Percival’s room. But he doesn’t think, doesn’t allow himself to think, just opens the door so it gives a sigh of a creak and shuts it behind him just as soundlessly. He’s familiar enough with the layout of Percival’s room to walk through it in the dark. Hardly decorated with personal affectations as Percival spends most of his time in the city, visiting only in the summer or when Credence is on holiday from Ilvermorny. Or he used to at least; now he doesn’t — not at all. Credence is surprised to find the bed actually occupied. 

Light from the lamps outside floods through the narrow gap of the curtains, cutting a line across the floor. He kneels on the bed, listens to Percival breathing. Time passes slowly. Credence lifts a corner of the sheet and crawls inside, making sure not one part of them touches. Immediately he’s assaulted by the warmth Percival’s body permeates, the familiar scent of his bed sheets. He wants to cry. He feels like a child again, lost and adrift, afraid of the unnameable things in the dark.

The other side of the bed starts to move. “Credence,” Percival says, sitting up. His voice is scratchy, his hair flat where he’d slept on it.“Credence what are you doing here?”

Credence peers at him where his head is pillowed on his folded hands. “I had a bad dream,” he says.

Percival reaches for his wand, illuminating the room so he can see Credence more clearly. There are tracks on his face, creases from where the pillows have left indentations. “You smell like liquor.” He frowns. He bends and gives Credence a sniff, his face too close Credence sees the whiskery beginnings of a beard. “You’re drunk.”

“Maybe,” Credence says, dully. “Does it matter? You drink enough for ten men.”

“That’s hardly here nor there.”

Credence clutches his head, regretting his decision to come here, not knowing why he thought it was a good idea in the first place. “You’re speaking too loudly,” he says. “It hurts my head.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” Percival snorts. “ _Foolish_.”

“Stupid. _Impertinent_ ,” Credence continues, his voice rising an octave, as he sits up, his hands starting to shake. Shame and rage make his eyes hurt. He’s never wanted to cry so hard in his life, not even when his Ma had taken out the belt and had him hold his hands palm-up for her to exact her punishment on cuts that were barely starting to heal. Not even when he’d gone without food for three days after eating more than his portion, or before they said grace. Gluttony, his Ma had called it. The sin of wanting more than you were allowed. He could never tell what was worth more — what he wanted or what he had. And he wanted, oh how he wanted. Never just once, but all the time. 

“What else, Percival?” Credence says. “ _What else?_ ”

Percival’s face softens. His grip on his wand slackens and he sets it aside on the nightstand. The light putters, in and out, in and out, like a ghostly moon until finally the room is plunged into blue-black darkness, but not before Credence sees the look on Percival’s face. 

“Come here,” Percival says quietly.

Credence doesn’t move; he waits for Percival in the dark. The bed dips when Percival reaches out to him, pulling him flush against his side, across his chest. The material of his shirt is soft under Credence’s cheek, and it dampens when Credence clenches his eyes shut and starts to shake. 

“You’re crying,” Percival says, a moment later, his thumb rubbing Credence’s elbow, his other arm wrapped around Credence’s shoulders. 

“I don’t know. I’m sorry,” Credence says, over and over. “I’m sorry.”

“Why?” Percival says. “You’ve done nothing to be sorry for, Credence.”

“Aren’t you angry at me?”

“Why would I be?” Percival says. His hand is soft in Credence’s hair, reminding him that it needs to be cut, too long now, past his chin. “Believe it or not, I was young too, once, and got myself into more trouble than you’d think. Don’t cry, Credence. You know I can’t bear it when you do.”

“I’m sorry,” Credence says.

“There you are again,” Percival says with a click of the tongue. But he sweeps his arms around Credence and squeezes him, awkwardly at first, before wrapping him in a complete embrace, his jaw brushing Credence’s temple, the skin raspy with stubble. Credence is taller now than what Percival is probably used to, long-limbed and lanky, with too big hands and feet, almost the same height. He can hardly fit in his arms, but Credence forces himself to pretend that nothing has changed, that he is still a boy, small and shaking in Percival’s arms though his heart cannot beat hard enough to deafen him. 

“You used to sneak into my bed whenever you had a bad dream,” Percival says to him, laughing gently, the sound making his chest reverberate under Credence’s ear. “You were so little.”

“I still get those dreams,” Credence tells him, his voice hardly above a whisper. A face, sometimes, or on bad days he dreams of the fire. He still wonders how his sisters had died, whether they’d been asleep or awake, if there was a chance they’d survived somehow and stumbled onto good fortune like him. He still blames himself for the accident. Even as a child living in the Church, he would often get bad dreams, portents: darkness sometimes, deep and unfathomable behind his eyelids, or the most fantastic things. Sometimes he wonders if he dreamt this life for himself, if he’d dreamt of Percival, praying hard enough to a god that he was never sure listened, and allowed this one thing, this miracle. 

Percival doesn’t say anything for a time, his hand stilling in Credence’s hair. He used to do that, when Credence was little. He used to hoist him over his shoulder, too, when Credence was being stubborn, pat him on the bottom playfully, and tickle him until he couldn’t breathe, take him to the ice cream parlor, the Opera, the state fair, but Credence still couldn’t bring himself to call him uncle. 

“How can you stand them?” Percival asks, finally. 

Credence shrugs, pretending he doesn’t know though the answer has always been easy, always been clear. He thinks of Percival.

*

Seventh Year is the hardest because Credence has yet to decide on what he wants to do with the rest of his life. He doesn’t want to be an Auror even though Percival promises him there will always be a job waiting for him in MACUSA, nepotism be damned, whether that meant a filing job in the wand permit office or something equally mundane until he finds his calling. 

And Credence doesn’t want a career in politics, because Ulfius has already proven time and time again that politics is always a messy affair even with mostly good intentions. He’d lost to Seraphina Picquery on a landslide and now spends his time in his vacation home in Corsica. In exile, he’d joked in the last letter he sent Credence. He said Credence was always welcome to join him if he felt like taking a holiday after graduation. The world was at his feet — as it always had been for Graves men, Ulfius said. So many paths to take and yet his feet take him back home, to Percival.

He floos to the brownstone for Thanksgiving. He’d always spent it in school so he doesn’t know what to expect. Percival’s place has always been less than cheery, not austere, but he isn’t the type to hang up tinsel at Christmas or string up a wreath at the door. There’s no one home, it appears, the den still and empty and quiet. Credence walks into the guest room after hanging up his coat and hat, brushing floo powder from his shoulder. He goes to pour himself a glass of water in the kitchen and almost stops at the sight that greets him: Percival, with his sleeves rolled up to his forearms, in his white shirt and suspenders, wrestling a stuffed turkey from the oven. 

“Help me with the turkey, will you?” he says, once he sees Credence at the door, a lock of hair curling over his face.

“Right,” Credence says, springing to his feet, helping him with the heavy-lifting. They lug the tray onto the table. The thing is heavy and makes Credence’s arm strain. “I didn’t know you cooked,” he says.

“I don’t,” Percival laughs. “But I thought we should make an occasion of it.”

“Are we expecting guests?”

“No,” Percival says, waving a hand so that the plates arrange themselves on the table with hardly any flourish. “It’s just you and me tonight, I’m afraid. Everyone else has plans.”

“I don’t mind,” Credence tells him. Percival gives him an odd sort of smile before pushing a stirring bowl into his hands, then a tin of cranberry sauce he summons from the counter. “You’re not very particular about cranberry sauce, are you? I don’t have fresh cranberries on hand.”

“This will do,” Credence says. 

Percival smiles at him again, reaching out to clasp him gently on the neck. His grip is firm, his touch familiar. “Good boy,” he says, in a way that makes Credence’s ears burn. He goes about with the task he’s given, while Percival excuses himself to change into something smelling less like he’d spent two days at the office. When he returns, Credence makes sure the table is set: spelling the linens a deep burgundy and setting out the cream gravy and mashed potatoes while the walnut pie sits cooling on the counter. 

Percival gives him an impressed smile. “Very good,” he says, running his hand over the table cloth. “Impressive.” There’s a note of pride in his voice and Credence instantly warms to it.

He wishes he’d gone in better clothing, and remembered to wear something nice like a suit and tie. But he’d been too excited to spend the weekend with Percival and had shown up simply in his uniform, sweater vest and tie in his house colors, and regulation pleated trousers. Uninteresting. Dull. Credence smooths his hair out of his face, parking his curls behind his ear. He can never seem to remember to get his hair trimmed. 

Percival’s hair, meanwhile, has been cut short on the sides, but it’s still a little long on top. It looks good. He’s still — he’s still handsome, Credence thinks. Always has been, no matter what he wears or doesn’t, even with spots of shaving cream on his jaw, or with his hair unmade, or running two days without sleep, his eyes red-rimmed and drooping. Credence isn’t stupid; he isn’t blind.

Later, they take dessert in the living room, in front of the fire, Credence tucked comfortably against the corner of the sofa, Percival across from him in his reading chair, his body slack in contentment. He lifts a finger in the air and a brass key hanging from a hook behind the door floats in his direction and he clasps it in his palm before holding out his hand to Credence, waiting for him to respond.

“What’s this?” Credence says, running his thumb over the brass bow.

“It’s a key to the apartment,” Percival explains haltingly. “I’ll be going away soon, Credence, and I won’t be back for a little while.”

“How long is a little while?” Credence asks. He feels he may not like the answer, but it’s better than being kept in the dark. The pit of his stomach feels heavy, like a stone has been dropped into it. His grip tightens around the cup in his lap when Percival meets his gaze.

“Remember Bucharest?”

Credence nods. Of course he remembers. Almost two years.

“I’ll be away on assignment again. There’s no one else who — listen, Credence. I want you to take good care of the apartment while I’m away. I trust that with you it will be in very good hands. You’ll do that for me, won’t you? Look after my things while I’m gone?”

“Of course,” Credence says, a little too desperately, too quickly, his words running together that it stops his breath how fast they come. “I promise.”

*

“I’ll teach you,” Percival offers when Credence comes to him, one night, the weekend before the Christmas ball. Credence is in his last year in Ilvermorny, and he’d flooed right before toll of bell, soot on the tip of his nose, still in his school robes. “There’s a dance,” he’d said in a mildly panicked tone. “And the prefects are leading.”

“Credence,” Percival says, utterly surprised, his book lowered. 

“I have two left feet,” Credence tells him, eyes wide. “I’m going to be the laughing stock of the school.”

Percival laughs, honey-smooth like the whisky he drinks in the glassfuls. He doesn’t seem perturbed, not in the very least. “Then we’ll have to set you to rights,” he says. He stands from his reading chair, lifting a hand. Credence stumbles as he is buoyed forward by an invisible force until he’s standing in front of Percival, too close, almost nose-to-nose. He’s taller now than he once was, of course, at seventeen, but still an inch shorter and even more so when he hunches, a habit he can never seem to shake off specially when faced with Percival himself. 

“Hello, Credence,” Percival says, with a soft smile, curtsying with a flourish before holding out his hand. “This is certainly a surprise.”

The radio crackles open, music juddering to life, a hiss of static at first like the sudden pop of a wine bottle and then something sweet and slow but Credence can’t name. Percival teaches him the steps, the same way he teaches Credence anything, with patience and great painstaking detail. They switch roles: Credence taking the lead, Percival next, then Credence again, as Credence missteps on clumsy feet and forgets where to put his hands. 

The music slows and then it’s Percival turn to rest his hand atop Credence’s hip, his thumb touching the dip where Credence’s school sweater has bunched at the waist, nipped into his trousers. He looks Credence straight in the eye but it’s an expression Credence has never seen on face his before, not since he was fourteen and he’d come running to Percival to show him his brand new dress robes from the tailor, in the same shade the Graves favored. Credence has to look away when it becomes too much, and his pulse starts humming again with every beat of his heart. 

“The women,” he says as Percival moves them to the music. “Do they rest their head on your shoulders like this?”

It’s bold but Credence does it anyway, leaning his cheek on Percival’s shoulder, closing his eyes and letting the rest of his body unspool like a thread, drifting to the music. 

“Sometimes,” Percival says solemnly. “If they like you enough, I suppose.”

“No one likes me in school,” Credence says. “Not like that anyway.”

“Then it’s their loss,” Percival says a little more firmly. “You’re a wonderful young man and anyone should be so lucky to have you by their side.”

Credence wants to laugh. Instead, he tightens his arms around Percival’s shoulders and tells himself it means nothing. Of course it doesn’t. He’s being presumptuous. Always, like his Ma used to say, acting out of line. Impertinent, a fool. “When are you leaving?”

Percival doesn’t seem surprised by the question, just resigned. “In a week or so.”

“Will you say goodbye?” Credence asks. 

“If I can afford it,” Percival says. 

Credence nods. The music is about to draw to a close. He doesn’t want it to. He wants it to keep playing; he wants to live in this moment like a memory cast in amber, forever frozen and unchanged. _Sentiment_. He’s always been weak to sentiment. 

“Write me a letter,” he says.

“Credence.”

“You used to write me,” Credence says. “When I was away in school.”

“This is different. I’ll be — _undercover_. It’ll be dangerous to send correspondence.”

Credence doesn’t look at him. He sees the half-open bottle of whisky on the table, the small journal next to it lying facedown with the leather abraded. They sway, a little, on their feet, rocking, bumping knees awkwardly. “I understand,” he says. 

“Credence,” Percival sighs. He touches Credence’s hair to get him to look at him, then draws his hand back to let it fall at his side, clenching and unclenching like a muscle, like touching Credence had hurt him. “You have to promise me you’ll look after yourself,” he says. “Look after the apartment.”

“Until you get back,” Credence says, needing him to say it. He doesn’t understand why it’s so hard for Percival to meet his gaze. 

Percival nods after a minute, squeezing his hip, an absentminded gesture though his hand lingers there for a long while, even after the music has stopped. “Until I get back,” he says. 

 


	3. carry your heart

 

 _ iii. _  
_ i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart) _

 

* * *

 

 

The first year is the hardest, searching for an avocation when no shoe seems to fit. Credence takes Ulfius’ on his offer and spends several months in his vacation home, accompanying him on fishing trips and playing the reluctant house guest. 

During the day, he walks a circuit up and down the cobbled streets teeming with errant hawkers, past weathered cathedrals and crumbling statues, old houses fronted by trees fringed in Spanish moss, eating his meals in the many cafes flanking the main thoroughfare. He likes to watch people as they move along the streets, alone, or sometimes traveling in great big hordes: a witch, one day, her hair tucked under a crooked hennin, the shiny buckles of her boots catching the light, then nuns — no-majs — shuffling along the road like a flock of ducks, their heads bent as they wended their way to Sunday mass. 

He thinks he sees Percival sometimes, in the ebb and flow of strangers: a familiar head of hair, a raspy laugh, sometimes in something as ridiculous as the angle of a shirtsleeve. He says as much to Ulfius who blinks at him at breakfast and turns another page in his newspaper. Ulfius indulges him from time to time but thinks it’s strange that Credence talks about Percival often, that he’d stolen a coat from Percival’s closet to wear everyday on his walks, the buttons coming apart in the sleeves, the hem fraying with age, the pockets lined with velour, deep as wells to warm his hands. The first few times, Credence sleeps with the coat on; he’s lucky Ulfius doesn’t say anything.

But Corisca doesn’t take to Credence, the same way he doesn’t take to the listlessness that pervades his days, or the heat. In August, he writes Newt a letter, asking him how he is. It’s been well over a year since they saw each other last — a dinner party that Ulfius had thrown right before Percival had left for his assignment, in which Ulfius had invited everybody, regardless of political affiliation. Newt had brought a bowtruckle with him in his front pocket — a friend, among many, he’d said later — and it caused quite a stir at the table, swimming in his soup and crawling across the linen. Ulfius had not invited him back to dine ever since.

But Newt is quick to write back to Credence, in his scratchy chicken scrawl; he’s in Cardiff, he says, on the lookout for a moke last seen in the area, a creature believed to be extinct, sighted by the cliffs in the last few months. He’d quit his job as a Hogwarts professor, preferring instead to devote his time traveling the world and studying rare magical creatures. He’s in the midst of writing a book, a project he’d decided to undertake after Tina — well, there’s always an _after_ , he writes. He sends Credence a ticket to Cardiff.

Credence arrives a month later, with no clear idea what he’s doing, a brass key heavy in his pocket squeezed for good luck. Wales is dull and smoggy, grey as newsprint, the water surrounding it choppy with waves. Newt is subletting a room above a noisy pub, tiny but kept neat, with a single bed and a casement window looking out onto a crowded street. A train rattles in the distance, sending the meager contents of his cupboard rattling. He spells a mug of tea warm, and sits Credence down on a heavy trunk in the corner, the only piece of furniture apart from the bed, the table, and the rickety chair housing a potted hydrangea already wilting.

“Time does fly when you aren’t paying attention,” Newt says, handing him a mug. He smiles lopsidedly. “I remember when we first met. You weren’t so tall. I suppose Ulfius has been keeping you busy?”

Credence nods. He’s been meaning to find employment, but purpose seems to have evaded him. Ilvermorny has equipped him with everything he needs to know except perhaps what to do with all the accumulated knowledge. Newt smiles in understanding, patting him on the shoulder. He’s always been so kind to Credence, always in the periphery while Theseus had been in the very forefront, taking everyone’s notice. Credence has always liked him, in comparison. He didn’t make his gut twist and Newt always had a kind word to lend him.

Credence notices Newt’s hand for the first time when he lifts it from his pocket to spell the whistling kettle into silence.

“What happened to your hand?” Credence asks, pointing. 

Newt seems to only take notice of it for the first time. He makes a thoughtful noise before shrugging. “Leningrad. It got bit by er — a _pogrobin_.” He looks embarrassed, shaking his hand in sharp jerks. “I wasn’t careful and it leapt at me and bit me when I wasn’t paying attention.”

It looks ugly, the bandage damp in patches, flecks of blood seeping through. Credence eyes it curiously, puts down his mug. “Can I take a look at it?”

Newt blinks but nods a second later, holding out his hand for Credence to inspect. Credence starts unwrapping the poorly taped gauze with his permission, wincing when it mats the torn skin and he has to peel it off very carefully with the tips of his fingers.

“Did you use yarrow?” he asks. “It’s supposed to speed healing.”

Newt gives him a funny look but doesn’t say anything. He lifts a finger, a signal for Credence to wait, and then lugs a suitcase from under the confines of the bed with his free hand. He pops the top open with a thump of his boot, then climbs inside as if it’s all perfectly normal, disappearing until only his head is visible above the compartment. He curls a beckoning finger at Credence, his eyes alight, fingers gripping the edge of his suitcase. “I want to show you something,” he says, with a muffled voice. He peers over at Credence. “Come take a look.”

From inside, he shows Credence the rest of the suitcase: a whole world, it seems, bigger than the room they currently reside, with a thriving habitat for the myriad creatures he keeps: a watering hole, a pen, a copse of trees. There’s a hut at the edge of the sprawling expanse, shabby with crooked planks, housinga narrow wooden bench that doubles as Newt’s bed, cluttered with rolls of parchment and a thin flimsy sheet. He shows Credence his work station, equally tumultuous, then digs inside a drawer to pull out the ointment he uses for his hand. “I’m afraid I ran out,” he says, with sheepish shrug, showing Credence the bottle. Credence reads the long list of ingredients at the back, then sets the bottle down and asks Newt where he keeps his herbs. 

Credence works diligently, crushing willow and sage with a mortal and pestle, boiling them with a pinch of beetroot until the cauldron bubbles into a frothy paste. He has Newt rub a smear across his injured hand before helping him re-wrap the bandages and clip the corner tightly. 

“Thank you,” Newt says, flexing his fingers, testing their dexterity. 

Credence helps him feed the creatures, fetching water from the well and throwing birdseed on the ground, clearing the pen of dry leaves and sweeping them up in a burlap sack to use as compost for later. Newt makes them a hearty soup made of tomatoes and heavy cream for dinner, and they eat hunkered down a bench outside Newt’s hut, dipping hunks of bread into their soup and watching the creatures graze and settle in for the night. 

“Credence,” Newt says, later, the bowtruckle climbing Credence’s fingers, then up his arm to settle on his shoulder with a happy chirp. “How would you like to work with me?”

 

*

It gives him something to do. There’s always a new place, somewhere to be, and it keeps him on his toes, the constant traveling. The places change often enough that he can only tell them apart by the various colors of terrain underfoot, tracking the progress of their travels by the wear in his shoes. In New Orleans, theybrave the swamps to chase after the world’s last pair of living dugbogs. They sleep under the stars on a deserted field in Iowa, where it’s flat and featureless, full of corn, and mooncalves graze on the wheat rimming either side of the road, out in the open. 

 

Often Credence finds himself working on a tonic — to cure sleeplessness, counter tic bites, reverse the effects of streeler venom. He’s not very good at it, feeling his way through the dark most times, having to repeat the process over and over again until the brew turns the correct color. The job has many hazards and Newt barely has any money to pay him, burning slowly through his savings. But the work keeps him busy, and moving, and moving, so exhausted he barely has the time to think of anything else.

 

* 

 

There's trouble brewing in Europe. It comes and goes but just to be safe they keep their travels domestic, spiderwebbing a path all the way across middle America, to Kansas, and then Missouri, then Talking Rock, Georgia where they find a nest of billywigs in an abandoned quarry. A war is on the horizon, and there are threats of an uprising, a coup. No-majs are developing a weapon. 

At least that's what the newspapers are saying. 

Credence tries to keep track of the headlines but is afraid of what he might see. He doesn’t know where the fear is coming from but often times he thinks of Percival. He’s dreamt of him again, the first time in months: a boat in a lake, surrounded by miles of water and firmament, a sun sinking in the horizon. He remembers the stillness of the water, the bob of Percival’s throat as he closes his eyes, his unmoving hands. Then Percival opens his eyes, and Credence wakes up.

*

He cuts his hair after a mishap with a salamander singes the ends of it. He’s been meaning to cut it anyway, have been for the longest time, always forgetting to in the face of other responsibilities. He doesn’t go to a barber, even though he can afford it, deciding to do the work himself and standing in front of the spotted mirror hanging above the washbasin doubling as a sink. He tilts his face this way and that then loosens the leather cord holding up his hair. It falls across his shoulders in a thick dark curtain, long, too long, he thinks. A result of absentmindedness. He remembers a story his Ma had read to him and his sisters. A page from the book of Judges: Samson and how he’d lost his strength after the woman he loved cut his hair while he slept. He was weak, and god punished him for it by allowing the Phillistines to blind him.

Credence picks up a pair of scissors and makes the first cut.

Later, Newt gapes at him at the door, armed with a bucket of birdseed. “What happened to your hair?” he says, aghast. 

“I couldn’t seem to find the right length that suited me, so I ended up…” Credence shrugs helplessly, gesturing at the outcome. His hair is clean, shorn close to the scalp. He rubs a hand through the short bristles,  ducking his head shyly, his neck feeling suddenly bare. It’s suited to the warmer weather; he can already feel the air prickling the back of his ears.

“Well,” Newt says after a moment. “Then I suppose you won’t be needing a hat to protect your hair from accidental fires anymore.”

Credence smiles in spite of himself.

They work, as they always do, looking after the creatures, searching for chinks in the charms that keep their habitats fortified, tending to their every need. At the end of a very long season, once some of the creatures have healed or matured enough to have learned how to fend for themselves, they let them go, releasing them back to the wild to join their herds. This summer is a hot one, with an oncoming drought following them wherever they go, tracing a deep path under the earth like a vein. Credence has been slow and groggy in the mornings, with the sun beating constantly down on them, the red dust of the road clinging to the folds of his shirts and matting it with a soft shade of brown. He rolls up his sleeves, undoing the top button of his shirt, and when he catches sight of himself in a mirror one day is struck by the passage of time, the sharp angles of his own face. Two winters have already passed, and they’re slogging through a long summer, making do with the meager provisions of food and despite trouble looming on the horizon. 

The radio crackles and hisses constantly with bad news. 

Elsewhere, a war has begun. But Credence pays it no mind, and sleeps the sleep of the road-weary, forgetting his dreams.

*

They spend Christmas in New York, invited by one of Newt’s old chums who owns a bakery. His name is Jacob, and he lets them settle down in his back room, which smells like confectioner’s sugar and sourdough. The floor is covered in a thin film of flour so their shoes leave soft imprints. Jacob is a no-maj but no one really talks about it, even as they sit down for Christmas dinner and eat the food he’s made, laughing at his jokes as he feeds them cakes from his bakery, soft danishes that melt in Credence’s mouth and remind him of — but he doesn’t think, or tries not to, his belly aching with food and laugher. Queenie helped make the bread rolls, slaving over the roast beef the no-maj way, her arms aching from the work. The result is something undercooked and soft, but Jacob acts like it’s the most delicious thing on the table, swallowing every bite with a grin and squeezing her hand openly, thumbing the groove of the ring on her finger. He loves her.

Tina arrives a little later, when they’re well on their way into their third round of eggnog, playing bridge in the kitchen. It’s a blustery evening, and her coat swallows her thin shoulders, her hat falling a little lopsidedly on her head. Credence answers the door and she looks up at him, surprised. He remembers the first time he’d met her, all those years ago. Not the night of the fire, but even before that, watching him from across the street as he and his sisters handed flyers to preach the word of the Lord. She’d worn a coat too that day, and her eyes had been unblinking, soft with pity. But she never approached him except on the night of the fire, taking him home and then to the MACUSA the next morning where a case was opened in his name: Credence Barebone, FILE 0ZDR2619. Years later, he’d see her every now and then, at functions Percival brought him along to, or the dinners he extended to his colleagues. But they hardly ever talked. 

“Credence,” she says at the door, her cheeks flushed from the cold. “It’s nice to see you.”

“Tina,” he says. 

He finds Newt nervously wringing his hands in the kitchen, downing his drink in one swallow, throat bobbing. 

“Are you all right?” Credence asks. 

“I’m fine,” Newt assures him, though he looks anything but. His hands are shaking, and his eyes keep darting left and right, unable to meet Credence’s gaze. Credence nods, and doesn’t press him. He’d found a photograph of Tina in a drawer, once, when he’d been out looking for a pair of pruning shears. He had asked that same night whether Newt had loved her and Newt had paused, turning over in his bed, rolling onto his side to face Credence who slept on the floor on a fold-up cot. They almost never talked about their lives, so Credence was surprised by Newt’s candor, the look of wistful sadness on his face that made him seem very young. 

“She was very dear to me,” Newt said carefully. “Very dear.” Eventually, he sighed and came out with the honest truth: “‘Course I loved her. But sometimes life presents you with crossroads and puts you on different paths.”

“What do you do then?” Credence asked.

And Newt, with a short choking laugh said, “Well, we do what we always do, Credence. We try our best to survive.”

*

They fall asleep one after the other, tumbling into bed, Jacob first because he couldn’t hold his liquor, then Queenie after she loses a game of blackjack, then Newt who brushes his teeth carefully with the bathroom door half open before stumbling onto the mattress laid out on the floor for the both of them. He snores a little, sleeping with his mouth half open and his face pushed into a pillow. Tina doesn’t stay the night, insisting she has an early start the next day, working on Christmas morning on a case that’s recently been assigned to her. Top secret. _No rest_ , she’d joked, not meeting Newt’s eyes as she bundled herself up in her coat. _Not for the wicked._

Credence can’t sleep. He gets up and puts on his coat, Percival’s coat that badly needs mending, and walks along the empty street with his hands inside his pockets and his collar turned all the way up. He walks, following the line of street lamps illuminating the sidewalk, his shoes softening the grey slush on the pavement. He walks, and when he comes to, finds himself standing under the awning of a familiar building. The pawnshop on the first floor has gone out of business, boarded up with plywood and flyers covered in wheat paste. The rest of the neighborhood is still asleep, a quiet hush blanketing the street like snow. 

Credence apparates, and has to brace himself against the wall when he materializes in the empty den of Percival’s brownstone. He’s surprised the wards still remember him. It’s been so long. Years, he thinks, as he wanders from room to room, picking things up and running his hands across the dust filming every surface. He mutters a spell, and the light flickers on with a weak splutter. He goes into the kitchen and stows the liquor back in their cabinets. He folds the blanket on the sofa. He shuts the curtains and washes the unmade dishes in the sink. 

Eventually, when he can no longer help himself, he goes to Percival’s bedroom, unlocking it with the brass key, where the bed sits untouched just like he had left it, the sheets unmade, the pillows dented from where he’d slept on them, a newspaper on the nightstand dated more than three years ago. Credence had barely even graduated Ilvermorny when he’d left to go on assignment. He hadn’t heard from him since.

Sun slants in through the windows, a dreamy almost silty quality to the light. Credence slips out of his shoes and lines them up at the foot of the bed carefully. Then he lies on top of the covers and closes his eyes. He breathes but doesn’t take off his coat. 

*

Newt puts himself in charge of breakfast, often enough that Credence has been woken everyday by the smell of cooking food. Sometimes, depending on where they are in the country, Newt buys them bread, still hot from the bakery, and when they can afford it, a tin of sardines or marmalade. There’s always a pot of tea steeping at the table in the morning, and a cup of coffee thoughtfully set out for Credence. 

The pattern hardly deviates and Credence finds comfort in the repetition, the day to day minutia of his changeless shapeless routine. Every morning he makes the bed, folds up his cot and washes his face with fresh water from the bucket Newt keeps by the basin. He cleans himself as best he can with a washrag before hanging it to dry on a hook by the door, then he dresses for the day, lacing up his shoes, and fastening his belt, clipping his suspenders. He runs a fine tooth comb through his hair, shorter now, the cut choppy and uneven after he’d botched subsequent attempts at playing barber. He steps out the hut to wake the creatures still sleeping in their pens for feeding, and when he finishes tending to them it’s almost always time for lunch, usually some sort of soup and a few pieces of hard bread and cheese. Sometimes when there’s nothing do, Credence challenges Newt to a game of cards, winning a hand every time though he often concedes a game or two.

They’re set up by the Charles in an apartment with only one window, looking out onto a footpath. It’s been awhile since they’ve stayed this long in a city, and Credence is still getting used to the small spaces and foot traffic, reminding him so much of what he’s left in New York. It’s easy enough to forget himself in wide open spaces, with the sky stretching over him covered in stars, and the road beyond unfurling like a lasso. But the quiet bustle of the city moving and breathing reminds him so much of home, of — _of Percival_ that he dreams about him almost every night: the lake, the lone boat moving across the water, so far away it’s only a speck in the distance, sliding farther and farther out of his reach. When Credence wakes he has to remind himself he was only dreaming, and is always surprised to find his face wet with tears. 

One morning as Credence is stowing away his cot, still sluggish with sleep, Newt raps his knuckles on the door to summon his attention. He has a brown paper bag clutched in his left arm, steam greasing the wax, a rolled up copy of the Boston Herald tucked under the other. His face has gone ghostly white. He looks Credence in the eye longer than he needs to before handing him the paper with a trembling hand. 

“Credence,” he says, “I think you need to see this.”

Credence tilts his head to the side in question, but Newt says nothing more, watching him raptly as he unfolds the paper. The headlines ripple and furl in an attempt to vie for his attention, grainy photographs flickering across the page. **Piquery proclaims EUROPE WAR OVER.** GRINDELWALD IN CUSTODY. And then just below it: _War Hero found in trunk near Montparnasse Hotel, Paris. Percival Graves, Director of Magical Security, was found half-dead in a trunk near the hotel where American Aurors were stationed — Graves, who had earned two Silver Stars and the Distinguished Service Cross in 1911 — Saint-Louis Hospital where the rest of —_

*

From London, Saint-Louis is a half day’s journey. Credence has never taken well to long distance apparition so he seats himself patiently in the first train to Paris, watching the landscape shimmer past the window, blurring into one immense indistinguishable color like an eye. Newt is kind enough to accompany him to the hospital, knowing how nervous Credence often gets in crowds. He makes himself sick with worry and fear, and a third other emotion that he finds difficult to pin down, all of it too much that by the time they reach the station, he retches in the nearest alley, heaving his breakfast in the gutter.

It takes even longer for the hospital staff to clear them for entry, eyeing their passports with barely concealed suspicion before a nurse escorts them up to Percival’s room on the tenth floor. Two Aurors flank his door, hunkered on stools, drinking coffee and playing chess, both looking worse for wear like they’ve been there for a while. They rise to attention at the sight of Credence and Newt approaching, and one of them, with a scar running down his left eye holds up a hand and asks them which newspaper they work for. 

“I’m family,” Credence says. “My name is Credence Graves.” 

*

Ulfius stands by the window, his back turned to Credence. He doesn’t move even at the sound of Credence approaching. It’s only when Credence says his name that he glances over his shoulder, his eyes softening at the sight of him, his stance loosening. He grasps Credence in a tight embrace, clasping his shoulders, studying his face with a sorrowful grin. “How are you Credence?” he asks. “It’s been a while. You look well.” He nods at Newt still standing by the door, hovering awkwardly. “Mr Scamander,” he says.

Credence glances at the bed. He almost doesn’t want to — he almost. He wants to cry, to do something wretched and embarrassing in front of Ulfius at the sight of Percival alive and asleep. Percival looks older, his body sunken with fatigue and malnourishment, his hair falling long across his face in matted waves. His right arm is in a sling, his head wrapped in gauze. Chunks of hair are missing from his scalp, the skin scabbed over, healing. Credence doesn’t want to touch him, afraid he’ll dissolve into pieces, into smoke. Afraid he’ll leave again. Four years, he thinks, and almost cannot fathom it. He pockets both his hands.

Credence sits in a chair by the fire, and watches Percival as he sleeps. 

Ulfius leaves, returns, then leaves again to buy them dinner. It’s morning again when Credence wakes from a dream he can’t remember.

*

Reporters come and go in droves and the Aurors at the door keep them away. Sometimes, Percival gets the odd visitor, an old friend from Ilvermorny, once even Theseus who’d stayed two days before remembering to ask how Newt was. But still Percival sleeps, after Seraphina Picquery, after the Goldstein sisters, Tina leaving a basket of apples by the table and touching Credence on the shoulder, smiling sadly. 

Credence never leaves his bedside, only when the healer tells him to in disjointed English when it’s time to redress Percival’s wounds. Then he takes a short walk down the street, to the pier, and thinks about nothing, nothing at all, his heart thrumming quietly in his chest when he makes that sharp turn to head back to the hospital. He feels it sometimes, a quickening of the blood, a judder in his chest — hope that diminishes as soon as he enters that quiet room again and sees Percival unmoved from the bed, his eyes closed, his hands clasped quietly across his chest as if in prayer. 

Sometimes Credence wonders what he’s dreaming about. Sometimes he wonders if he’s dreaming at all.

*

Three weeks later, it starts to snow. Credence watches it drizzle like tinsel out the window, shimmering lines that coat the ground and melt into slush. Tina sends another basket of apples and Credence starts peeling one each day, just so he has something to do with his hands. He cuts himself, once, by accident, dropping the knife and sucking the blood from his thumb, making enough of a ruckus that the Aurors — Elliot and Maurice — rush inside to see what the commotion is all about: Credence on his knees, clutching a knife, shards of saucer on the floor. Credence had blushed, stammering an apology.

He cuts the apples into little pieces by the table, returning the next day to find them brown with spots, completely unmoved. He spells the window silent when it rattles against the wind. 

Percival’s beard has grown, unkempt after some months. Credence has never seen him like this, in the years they’ve lived under the same roof. Percival has always taken care of himself to the point of vanity, his clothes finely pressed, his hair stiff with pomade. He keeps his shoes well polished and shiny. He wears cologne that often leaves a lingering scent in the room. 

Credence weakens one day and touches him for the first time, his face first, then the bristles at his jaw with a tentative sweep of a finger. He starts at the first touch, drawing his hand back guiltily though he weakens again just the same and reaches out. Percival’s breathing never changes, calm and steady in repose, his eyelids unmoving. 

Credence kneels by the bed and cups his face, tracing his fingers through the dark mess of Percival’s hair. He thumbs his eyebrows, the wrinkles giving new depth to his forehead. He’s always been a handsome man. He’s older now, and it shows in the lines of his face, but it doesn’t matter. Credence misses him. Even as he sleeps, he misses him the most. There’s an ache behind his eyes that he tries to tamp down, a strange yearning. He thinks of the train ride, the dread that swept his body in the days leading up to seeing Percival again. The lack of dreams. And the newspaper article, the words _half-dead_ resonating in his mind. 

What does that even mean, he thinks viciously. How can anyone be half-dead? Then he wonders if any of it is true. If Percival, who’s always been so kind to him, and brave, is really what they say he is: _half-dead_. The parts of him that Credence remembers best, the good parts, what if they had died with him in the trunk? What if he wakes and he never gets any of them back; what if he’s never the same again? They say he was hardly breathing when they’d found him, stowed away in a trunk heavy with charms. They say no one even knew he’d been missing because he often disappeared for weeks at a time. They say —

Percival opens his eyes.

It startles Credence into silence, and he immediately drops his hands. But Percival stops him, in time, curling a hand around his wrist, his grip loose, weak, but compelling Credence into obedience. His eyes are clear. Then his lips start to move.

“Credence,” he says, his voice rough and almost unrecognizable. He lifts a shaky hand, touching the side of Credence’s face, his knuckles grazing Credence’s cheek. “Is this a dream?” Then he says, sounding almost wistful, “Look at you. You cut your hair.”

Credence nods, rubbing the bare skin of his own neck self-consciously, his hair the shortest that it’s ever been. He nods, again, and a fat tear escapes the corner of his eye when he presses Percival’s hand to his face. He breathes the smell of Percival’s skin, bitter with the healing liniment caulked into the lines. Credence kisses the inside of Percival’s palm, thinking of the pilgrims that kiss the hands of saints, praying for a miracle. 

This is it, his miracle. His next breath is shaky as his throat closes up. He starts to cry and Percival thumbs the tears as they come. He can’t seem to stop crying; he feels like a child, reduced to monosyllabic simplicity, repeating Percival’s name: _Percival, Percy., Perce_ He cries harder, harder than when Percival had left, all those years ago, a complete blubbering mess. 

“It’s good to see you again,” Percival says, sitting up to embrace him, as if Credence is the one that needs consoling. Credence shudders in his arms, laying his head on his bony shoulder. “I was afraid I never will, Credence.”

*

Ulfius floos in at the soonest, straight from where he’s vacationing in Hungary, still in his evening robes. There are reporters again though a trickle only arrive, one from The New York Ghost hounding Credence with questions on his way to the hotel where he collects a fresh change of clothes for himself and manages to catch a little shuteye. He doesn’t get Percival alone again until two weeks later, pushed aside by a number of Percival’s visitors — colleagues from MACUSA and a beleaguered Seraphina Picquery who, after giving him an earful, wishes him health, then puts him on leave until further notice. 

Theseus, again, makes an appearance and Credence is seized once more by a wave of unbidden jealousy so replete he takes a long walk in the snow to temper himself. When he returns, Theseus has gone, but is replaced by a man called Abernathy, a direct report of Percival. Abernathy leaves a basket of fruit, flowers from the women, he says, of the thirtieth floor: daisies and tulips. “We hope to see you soon, sir,” he says. He disapparates with a pop when Percival falls asleep.

The healers place Percival in a different room at the end of the week, smaller but with a better view of the courtyard outside. There is sunlight in the morning, wintry and weak, but it improves Percival’s pallor and he can finally keep food down without retching in a bucket by the bed. He’s lost some weight. His hair is starting to grow back where it’s shorn off the scalp and the bandages are due to come off in a few days. Still he looks like a madman, his beard almost offensive in size, catching crumbs of food when he feeds himself with a shaking hand. 

Credence is tempted more than once to wrench the spoon from his grip and do the job himself but he feels suddenly shy again, as if this Percival, now fully awake and in control of his faculties, is a stranger, not the same man who would put him to bed with a story and press a kiss to his forehead. One day he takes a walk into town and enters a shop, leaving with a shaving kit tucked under one arm. 

As soon as Percival wakes, Credence presents his gift, wrapped in brown paper. Percival laughs as he opens it gingerly and Credence sees him clench his shaking hand, testing his own dexterity. He’s been bedridden the whole time, advised to exercise his arm and leg whenever he can. The healers say he may walk with a limp. Sometimes healing draughts can only do so much; there’s more the body must do to rebuild itself into what it once was. 

“I can do it for you,” Credence says, staring down at his own hands, curled over his knees. “I can help.” His ears feel suddenly hot, his face too despite the coolness of the room. 

“All right,” Percival acquiesces. He taps the back of Credence’s hand, squeezing, then says airily, “Do what you must, Credence. Away with you, foul beard!” Then he smiles and Credence feels it, the old feeling seeping into his bones, hot like a fever.

Later, he unrolls the kit on a nearby table, setting everything down. He conjures a basin of water, then folds his sleeves tup o his elbows. Touching Percival is always a novelty — he’d never given it much thought when he was a child, whether it was a hand on his shoulder or Percival’s hand in his own — but his face, his eyes crinkling in the corners like this as Credence stands over him, gripping his jaw — Credence swallows and thinks of the night Percival had taught him the waltz, their faces so close Percival’s breath perfumed his face. He was seventeen years old when he’d realized, when he’d felt —

He gets to work. 

Credence undoes the first two buttons of Percival’s shirt. His chest is covered in the same coarse layer of dark hair that pervades his face. Percival looks at him, curious, but says nothing, waiting for him to start, expectant. Credence soaks a towel in hot water before pressing it to Percival’s face, patting his beard until it’s damp and ready for a shave. His hands never shake though his insides feel like they’re about to upend themselves. Next is the brush, which he dabs over Percival’s jaw in circular motions until it starts to lather. He’s nicked himself, shaving, the first few times so he’s careful when he takes out the razor, wetting it with warm water from the basin before making the first shave.He moves efficiently, short and then long strokes, the blade sinking clean each time, hand never wavering. 

“You’re tall, taller than I remember,” Percival says, later, as Credence rubs a corner of his cheek with foam. His eyes are still closed, his head tilted back. His throat bobs with every breath, vulnerable to the blade. “How old are you now? Nineteen?” 

“Twenty-one in the spring,” Credence says.

“Oh,” says Percival. Then he opens his eyes. “Did you cut your own hair?” he asks. He reaches out, hand almost to Credence jaw but he stops himself and lets his arm drop to his side. 

Credence stiffens abruptly. “Does it look — I didn’t like how. It got in the way sometimes. Of work,” he says. 

“What is it that do you do?” asks Percival.

“I’m Newt’s apprentice,” Credence says. He realizes he’s never had to explain his work to Ulfius, to anyone. “He’s writing a book about magical creatures. I help out. We travel, sometimes. I make potions out of venom. Healing tonics. Draughts. I wasn’t very good at first but Newt says I’m improving.” 

“Do you like it?” Percival asks, a strange lilt in his voice. “Do you like working with Newt?”

“It’s challenging work.” 

“But do you like it?” Percival asks, in a sharper tone. 

Credence shrugs.He doesn’t know the answer so he keeps silent, finishing Percival off with a few more swipes. Once the job is done, he takes a step back, handing Percival a towel and a hand mirror, feeling quite pleased with himself. It’s not a perfect shave, he’d made a tiny cut in Percival’s cheek, but the beard is now, at the very least, gone, replaced by smooth freshly-shaved skin, damp with aftershave. It smells — different, of course, not the same scent of cloves that Percival used to use. 

“You did a great job of it, Credence,” Percival says, setting down the mirror. “I’m impressed.”He looks out the window, at the snow falling fast on the ground, then back to Credence. “Twenty-one, you said?”

“In the spring,” Credence affirms.

“Four years then,” he sighs.

Credence nods haltingly. “Yes,” he says. “Four years.”

*

Percival doesn’t tell him what happened, what he was doing in Paris, how he was found, or why it took four years but Credence doesn’t ask. It’s not his place to ask, and it has never been. Soon, spring comes barreling in without warning, four days of hard rain thawing the ice, then a harsh morning full of sun that buds the flowers and sets everything to color. 

Ulfius signs the discharge papers, and they set a course for home, packing up Percival’s belongings which consists of the clothes he was found in, and a few other personal effects like his wand and medal of valor, awarded by the President herself in a private ceremony that never made the papers. 

Ulfius has those clothes burnt, and unpacks one of Percival’s old dress robes from his trunk. It swallows him like a sheet, hanging off his shoulders, several sizes too big. 

Ulfius hands him his old cane, the same one he’d used when he’d returned home from the war — the first war, with a limp in his stride. Percival asserts himself to his full height. Now that the cast has come off, he can move nimbly again, but every now and then his right hand shakes, or he stumbles a step that he blames on the loose flooring. 

“I suppose we’re all set then,” Ulfius says, looking at them both before nodding. 

“I’m ready if you are,” Percival says, giving Credence a wink. “This place can drive a sane man mad with tedium.”

“Always dramatic, Percival,” Ulfius says, without any real heat. “Just like mother.”

Percival meets Credence’s eye again, and he smiles before Ulfius can catch him, just one side of his mouth. “Take us home, Credence,” he says. “I’m sick of Paris.”

*

The first thing Percival does is have himself a hot bath, letting Tilly fill up the tub so he could soak out the pain between his shoulder blades. 

There’s a twinge, he says, that he can’t remember getting, either from spending too long in bed or — _that time_ in Paris. He often clips his words, leaving Credence in the dark. He has a scar that Credence catches sight of, one day, when he’s absently rubbing ointment on his shoulder, a thin line spiderwebbing across one side of his back, crawling up his forearm.He’s seen him once before, naked from the waist up, when they’d gone to work on clearing out the greenhouse, all those years ago, his shirt tied to his waist, suspenders hanging loose at his sides. 

He’d been in good health then, taking care of his body, his back ropey with muscle, his waist narrow and trim. There were lines of hard muscle in his stomach that Credence had afterwards wondered about. He’d never seen a man without his shirt on before, still a boy then, and marveled at the hair covering Percival’s arms and chest, his skin brown from the sun. 

Other than the bruises on Credence’s skin where he constantly bangs his foot on crates or bumps into the sharp table corners of Newt’s ramshackle hut, he is utterly pale and unmarked, the hair on his own chest sparse like the hair on his head. 

Credence offers, the morning he appears in Percival’s room with a breakfast tray full of his old favorites: plain toast and runny eggs, a side of fruit and a sliver of dark chocolate, a rare indulgence. He’d snatched the tray from the kitchen, hurrying up the stairs before Tilly could take it to Percival herself as she did every morning. 

He eyes the bottle in the corner of the room, picks it up and then says, “I made a healing oil, for aches and sore muscles.” It’s true — but whether or not it’s as potent as _Missis Sloan’s Liniment For Aches and Pains_ remains to be seen. He’d made it, months ago, thick with herbs and crushed feverfew. He’d hurt from the heavy-lifting, from wrangling some of the bigger creatures when they were being stubborn, waking with sore muscles and an aching back, unable to lift his arms without wincing. 

“Your back — does it still hurt?” 

“It gets worse everyday,” Percival tells him. “I’d summon a healer, but my relationships with authority are tumultuous at best.” He smiles wryly. “Why do you ask?”

“I want to — if you — I can—” Credence stumbles on his words, righting the bottle on the table when it rolls across the table, clumsy with shyness. 

“Are you offering, Credence?” Percival says. “To give this old man a back rub?” His face — it’s soft with an emotion that makes Credence’s belly fill up with warmth. “After breakfast, perhaps. Will that be all right?”

“Of course.” Credence nods. He accompanies Percival for his meal, peeling the fruit Tilly always remembers to leave for Percival at his bed side. He lifts his eyes when he hears Percival setting his tray aside, mopping the corner of his lips with a table napkin. He climbs out of bed, sitting on the very edge, his back to Credence. 

When he starts undressing out of his nightshirt, Credence has to remind himself to breathe. He looks every which way, swallowing tightly, turning red when Percival glances at him over his shoulder, expectant. “Credence? Are you all right? Your face is red.”

Credence rifles through his satchel, his clothes still unpacked in his old room, and then sprints back to Percival’s room, slowing to a sedate pace once he reaches the door. He kneels behind him, on the bed, his bare hands on Percival’s shoulders, and is struck by the urge to press his face between them and breathe. Credence clenches his jaw, and proceeds to pour oil onto his palms, dampening his fingers before working them onto Percival’s skin. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, stroking circles up the expanse of Percival’s back before sweeping down with lighter strokes. He can feel the tension in Percival’s muscles, the hard knobs of his spine, the stubborn knot of muscle wanting to be undone, there, under his left rib where the white of his scar cuts a harsh line. He presses forward with his knuckles, and Percival jerks back with a yelp and a curse.

“Did I hurt you?” Credence asks, alarmed.

Percival lifts a hand, still trembling and unable to hold it still even after months of the special draught that helps steady his feet. 

“Too hard?” Credence asks. 

“I’ll tell you when it is,” Percival promises him. “Carry on, Credence. I can manage.”

“I don’t think I’m very good at this,” Credence confesses, afterwards, stopping his hands, resting them, very lightly, on Percival’s back. His fingers are pale against Percival’s skin, damp with shimmers of oil. “But the oil is supposed to help.”

“Well, I could always ask Tilly to do this for me,” Percival says thoughtfully. “When you’re not available.” 

“Tilly has — she has small hands,” Credence says. Then he has a thought. “Am I not — do you —”

“Your hands are fine, Credence,” Percival says with a light laugh. “I was only joking. You’re doing well.” Then he groans, deep in his chest, titling his head to the side, the sound making Credence’s stomach drop, the air in the room turning a little sharper. “A little to the right please, _ah_ , there we go. You’re good. With your hands,” Percival says. 

Credence reddens but doesn’t think too much of it. He’s good at that now, not thinking, just moving. Three years, and he sleeps just fine in spite of the dreams. He dabs some more oil onto his hands, running his fingers along the broad width of Percival’s back. He pauses, staring at the thick slope of Percival’s shoulders, the skin sagging where it used it to be tough sinew. 

He doesn’t touch Percival’s scar, suddenly afraid. He hesitates, and lays his hands, cool, on Percival’s shoulders. “This smell —” Percival says. “It reminds me of my mother. The tea she drank in the morning. It’s very — strong.”

“I haven’t figured out a way to mask it,” Credence says, embarrassed. “Soon, maybe. I’ll try again.”

“What shall we call this then, mm?” Percival continues, still in the same light voice, his head tipped back, his eyes closed but smiling. “ _Credence’s Cooling Balm for Aches and Sores_? You could run Missis Sloan out of business, you know.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Credence says, but he’s grinning, his ears turning scarlet.

“Credence,” Percival says, the sound of his name spoken in this tone making Credence look up. 

Credence doesn’t breathe and he drops his hands immediately, straightening to attention. 

“Come. Sit with me,” Percival says, beckoning him over. He pats the space next to him. Credence gets up, starts to crawl awkwardly across the bed. He sits next to him so that their knees do not touch, a distance away. He curls his hands in his lap, startling when Percival reaches out to cup his face, without warning.

“What are you doing?” Credence asks, eyes wide, heart beating so loud in his chest he feels his ears pop. It’s spoken out of courage though his voice shakes at the last syllable, stumbling between gritted teeth. 

“I was in that trunk for months, close to a year.” Percival says, beginning a story Credence isn’t sure he wants to hear, nor is he ready to. “Did you know?”

_No_ , Credence thinks not without a spike of anger. No one ever tells him anything. Not Ulfius, or Newt. No one. Then he feels his fists loosen and he hangs his head, suddenly tired. 

Percival lifts his face to look him in the eye, properly for the first time in months. “I was asleep, then I was awake,” he says, his thumbs sweeping a path up Credence’s cheeks. “But in between that I was dreaming. Strange as it may seem, you were in most of my dreams, Credence. But I couldn’t see your face; I don’t know why I had a hard time remembering it. Then I look at you now, and ask myself the same question. How can anyone forget a face that lights the dark?” 

Credence says nothing, because what can he say to that? That he had dreams too, and he woke from them, often with a weight sitting heavy in his chest. That he hated Percival in the last few years for leaving without an explanation. That he’d mourned him, like he was dead. Unfinished business will always come back to haunt you, and a good man who swears to return will find his way back no matter the cost. But none of that matters, because even though Percival is here again, alive and well, and awake, nothing has changed. Credence still sleeps alone, and Percival will survive fine without him. They live, still, such distinct lives. 

“You’re a grown man now,” Percival says to him. “I’m very proud of you, Credence.” He lets Credence go and Credence stops himself from following. He feels like a miser, hoarding what he can of Percival. Greedy like a mongrel, always hungry for scraps from the table, obedient under Percival’s hand. He hates what he’s become, what it’s come to. 

“What happened?” he asks, instead, pointing to Percival’s arm.

Percival looks down, lifting a hand, clenching and unclenching it before shrugging. “I was careless. As always.”

“And?” Credence prompts, pushing, testing his boundaries. 

Percival shrugs again, slipping back into his shirt, buttoning himself up one-handed with his good hand. The time for stories is finished and Credence feels that chasm again, widening between them. 

Percival smiles down at Credence, over his shoulder, but says nothing more.

*

After the first month, Percival is driven mad by boredom. He keeps away from the public eye, unwilling to leave the estate but also on strict orders from his healer to be on bed rest. He’s stubborn, of course, and goes on walks at night, accompanied by Credence who worries about his own hovering, that Percival would find it stifling that he was there all the time, at his beck and call, forgetting his other responsibilities. 

He’d written to Newt about taking a break in the mean time, working on the foreword of the book, like he’d promised. But he hasn’t done any writing, not in recent weeks. Percival walks, and he follows. From time to time, he wanders down the lake, white like a spectre, blowing rings of smoke at the moon.

Often, Ulfius floos in for tea and a game of chess, but Credence watches Percival, and knows: he can’t stand any of it. 

Percival has always taken pleasure in running himself ragged. Credence knows he works hard, that he puts long hours as Director, that he’s devoted his entire life to serving a higher purpose. All for wizardkind. For the good of the world. There’s no one else as unselfish or as kind as Percival. Credence has read about the knights, knows Percival has been named after one, the most courageous, the one with whose heart was most true.

One morning, Credence finds him walking up the hill to the greenhouse. Credence climbs up the path after him. Even on good legs, the soil is slippery with dew, the ground sloughing under his shoes. 

He calls Percival’s name, and Percival glances at him with an almost manic grin. And against all odds, Credence remembers: the first time they’d undertaken the project, all those years ago, of restoring the green house to its former glory. The pots and cauldrons tucked in a rickety cupboard, the corner Percival had outfitted with cozy rugs and the reading chair the perfect size for a child. All of it, for him.His chest aches as he touches his hand to the window, mottled with mildew.

The front door is nailed shut, glass and broken tiles overlaying the ground, green and leggy with growth. The roof has been smashed in, the vegetable plot weedy with neglect, overgrown with grass. It’s been derelict for years, sitting there on top of the hill, alone and unused. And then Percival lifts a hand — the first time in a long time Credence witnesses him doing magic. Immediately, the roof restores itself. The windows shudder, righting themselves back in place, glass mending itself in the blink of an eye. Percival moves his hand and the door opens with a soft creak. He beckons Credence over, and, without waiting for him to follow, starts to walk inside.

*

It takes weeks before the greenhouse is restored. Percival starts to do everything by hand, without the aid of magic. He says he needs something to do, or he’ll risk going mad. He is nothing if not singleminded, hauling a bucket up the hill and washing out soot and mud from the walls, taking out planks of rotting wood, weeding out the path, knelt on the soft dirt. More often than not, he gets his trousers dirty, his back aching all the more for it, wincing as he labors every morning up hill, without his wand. He’s grown up in wealth, and all that that lifestyle purported, but unlike Ulfius, finds enjoyment in the small things: he leaves a cube of sugar for the birds that call the trees their home, scrapes strips of paint off the wall with a long knife until the wood scars beyond salvaging. When that yields little effect, he peels it off with magic, laughing in embarrassment when Credence catches him at it, claiming it took to long to do by hand.

On the second week, Credence brings him food from the kitchen, a tray of fruit and slices of cold meat and a few pieces of hard bread. Percival sets him to the task of repainting half of the wall. Credence is glad to be of help so he goes about it in earnest, buttoning up his sleeves and tying his hair from his face with a ribbon. His hair has grown longer now, untended, thick with fat curls. He always forgets to cut it. He should, he knows, but he remembers Percival’s face upon waking, the way he’d looked at him when he saw that Credence had shorn his hair.

The work makes him sweat. His arms ache, afterwards, and he eats the soft cakes he brings Percival, ravenous in his hunger, much to Percival’s amusement.

“It’ll be your birthday soon,” Percival says, one afternoon after the work has been completed for the day, lying on his back on the ground outside. He has one arm tucked behind his head, two buttons undone at his throat. Credence can see the outline of his chest, the way it moves in rhythm to his breathing. He’s filled in again, soft with fat and muscle, though echoes apart from his previous weather-hardened bulk. Still, he looks better, no longer a shell, about to come apart from a single touch.

“Twenty -one,” Percival says, sounding wistful. He lets out a hoarse laugh. “We should throw a party. You could invite all your friends.” 

“I don’t want a party,” Credence says, tugging at the grass, freeing it from the dirt. He brushes dandelion from his face where it obscures his view of the sky, already rosy with dusk.

“Then what do you want?” Percival asks, in a tone that makes Credence want to ask for anything, everything Percival might be able to give. 

The truth is, Credence doesn’t know. He can say he wants something expensive, but he’s never been one for shiny trinkets. He can say he wants a gift, new boots, a closet full of clothes he won’t ever have the opportunity to wear. Jewelry, his own apartment in the city where he can go about his days, free of company if he wills it. He can say — he looks at Percival, eyes closed against the setting sky, humming under his breath. It’s a familiar tune, one that Credence has already heard before but cannot name. There are lines around Percival’s eyes, the corners of his mouth. He’d nicked himself, shaving, that morning, and shown Credence where: a small cut just half the length of a thumb, now covered in a spot of shaving cream gone dry with sweat and dirt. 

The sun is sinking below the greenhouse, throwing long shadows on the ground. The air smells of night-fall, bitter like tea leaves, filling with noises of birds, frogs, insects. They lie together in the long grass, shoulder to shoulder, and fall asleep. 

When they wake, night has fallen completely, and Credence follows sleepily after Percival as he makes the downhill climb in the dark. 

*

Because it’s Ulfius, he throws a party though it’s more reserved after Credence makes the request, the invitation extended to Credence’s closest friends. He’s written to Koschei and Effie, his friends from Ilvermorny, but they’re both busy with their lives, on vacation, and are both unable to come. Koschei sends him a present, along with a moving photograph of his daughter, fat-faced with a gummy grin. 

Credence had been in Nebraska when they’d had the wedding, receiving the invitation three weeks late by owl. He doesn’t mind that they’re unable to come, and immediately writes back to send his regards. Newt, too, is back on his feet and traveling. Credence doesn’t know Queenie enough, Tina’s sister,outside of Newt’s interactions with her, so he forgoes writing her out of shyness. 

There are presents of course, from Ulfius, and Percival. A ticket to Spain to see the bulls from Ulfius, and a leather-bound journal from Percival with a brass latch, the front embossed with the Graves family crest. Also, a fountain pen with never-ending ink to write with when he goes on his travels, says Percival. 

For the first time, Ulfius and Percival take Credence to the study and pour him wine from the bottle they keep stored in a charmed cabinet. 

The wine makes Credence heady, and the only thing he can compare it to is that time he’d ridden a broom the first time and almost plunged to his death. He’d managed to grab hold of the handle before his fingers slipped and he hurtled like a bullet to the ground, kicking and shouting — only Percival had caught him in time, cushioning hisfall with magic, letting him hover in the air for a long breathless moment, light as a feather, before setting him down again on solid ground.

Ulfius is the first to retire, hiding a yawn behind his fist as he disapparates from the study. It leaves Credence alone with Percival whose gaze is softened by the wine in his hand. He’s dressed for tonight’s occasion — suit and tie, and a pair of silver cufflinks in the shape of a Wampus, showing off his house pride. He’d found them this morning after rummaging through his closet for old things with which he could furnish the greenhouse. 

“Do you like your present?” Percival asks tentatively, glancing in his direction, his smile soft, fond.

The wine makes Credence’s tongue loose, his thoughts lose the order they typically keep when faced with Percival himself. Credence slouches in his chair, so low his gaze is nearly level with the table. He hiccups, and then laughs. “You were always terrible at gifts,” he says.

“I was, wasn’t I?” Percival agrees, polishing off his drink. 

“You still are,” Credence tells him, too full and drunk to think about his words.

“You mean — _Credence_.” Percival starts to laugh. “Oh, I’m awful. You never said anything!”

“Because I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”

“I was under the impression you loved the gifts. Not even the broom?”

“No,” Credence says. “Although, I used it a few times with little success.”

“I can’t believe I’m hearing this now — I should have listened to Ulfius and taken you out shopping all those times.”

“I didn’t want anything anyway,” Credence insists, grinning at the indignation in Percival’s voice. It’s the truth. “I still don’t.”

“Still,” Percival says. He shakes his head, more at himself than anything.

“You make me happy, you know,” Credence says, unable to catch himself in time before it escapes him. His eyes widen, and he sits up, but it’s too late; Percival’s heard him, locking his gaze with Credence’s, unblinking and unreadable. 

“You —” Credence says, fighting hard to save himself. “You’re very kind. And I appreciate all that you’ve done for me in the last eleven years.”

“Credence,” Percival says. Credence looks at him, through the gaps between his fingers. He’s hidden his face in his hands, his ears red with embarrassment, hot with same. He feels like that child again, hovering by the door, watching as Percival pored over his reading by the light of the fire, afraid of any misstep, of making a sound that would alert Percival to his presence, afraid of making him angry, or worse yet — hate him. It’s been years, but he still feels like that boy from time to time.

Credence looks up when he feels the weight of Percival’s hand on his shoulder. He’s refilled his glass, his mouth faint with red dregs. “A toast, Credence,” he says as he lifts it to the light. “A toast, to the fine young man you’ve become.” He squeezes Credence’s shoulder then cups Credence’s jaw with the same hand still shaking with faint tremors. “Happy birthday Credence,” he says, his thumb low on Credence’s lip.

Credence only breathes when his back is turned.

 

*

He takes Credence to the Opera House on Christmas Eve, his re-entry to society. It’s not as dramatic as either of them is expecting. Percival is met with a few awe-struck glances, sought out by old friends, or young colleagues from work, given worshipful smiles in a way that makes Credence’s stomach squirm. A few men clasp him on the shoulder, or shake his hand, ask him how he’s been — men, Credence realizes, who fought with him in the same war. Aurors. Some as young as Credence. 

Credence is largely ignored by most of them, though he keeps himself close to Percival’s side, watching the tide of people sweep past them, most of them gawking and pointing and whispering. He hears what they say about him: _war hero, scoundrel, impostor,_ and shoots them all a look, helpless to stop the vitriol. There hasn’t been a headline in the last few months ever since they’d caught a reporter from The New York Ghost snooping around in the courtyard. 

Percival has been preparing himself for work, looking over cases that required a critical eye, flooing sometimes to his office, returning late at night in need of a stiff drink. He still isn’t due back until spring when the president herself will declare him — _publicly_ — fit for duty. Till then, he’s been waiting, practicing spells in the courtyard like they’d done when Credence was little, training constantly, long hours that leave him ragged with exhaustion, going at it until sundown, beating himself black and blue.

There’s nothing to be done about his limp though he walks a few steps just fine without a cane. His hand still shakes from time to time, and when he’s in a giving mood, he asks Credence to make him more of that healing oil that Credence rubs himself across Percival’s shoulders, down the length of his bad arm, then back up again to where his neck meets his shoulders, easing the build of an ache there.

Credence has only been to the Opera once, never having the ear for it. That was years ago, and he was a child, barely fourteen. Sitting next to Percival now, things are different — he is awed by the spectacle, the warm dark that falls over the room like a curtain a beat before the music starts. 

Credence has always appreciated music, even as a boy when his Ma made them sing their hymns in church. He can hum a tune he’s heard on the radio, and mumble the words at best he can, always off-key. He still remembers the song on the gramophone, playing the night he’d asked Percival to teach him to dance: _la-da-dee-da-dee-da, la-dee-la-dee-dee-da._ Something in French, low and crooning.

He listens, rapt with attention as the story unfolds, glancing at Percival whose face is unreadable in the shadows. He leans into him, and their arms touch, and Percival smiles at him before turning his gaze back to the stage. Later, as they’re filing out, a reporter approaches them with a self-writing pen and notebook, a feather in her cap. Percival is polite at dodging her questions, but the woman is insistent, invasive with her questions — _How do we really know you aren’t Gellert Grindelwald? How can we trust you?_ —so much so that Credence takes it upon himself to drag Percival out the door, and to the street outside where a number of cars are parked, waiting.

Snow is falling, lightly, on the ground. Credence doesn’t let go of Percival’s sleeve, and thinks, hard, of a place. Thinks of snow, and trees, a place they can be alone. They disapparate, without warning, and it leaves Credence feeling like he always does: out of breath, his stomach tangled in knots. But with Percival at his side, he’s buoyed back into the present, righting himself all at once but not letting Percival’s arm go. 

“What are we doing here?” Percival asks.

Credence looks: they’re in Central Park. It’s late, and the ground is covered in a thick layer of ice, the lake completely frozen. The trees are bare, blackened stumps. There’s no one around to see them, the whole of it still and quiet. A sullen moon sits high in the sky, illuminating everything, making the frost shimmer. 

“I—I don’t — I wasn’t thinking,” Credence says. His breath fogs the air. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“Credence,” Percival says, touching his arm. “Calm down. It’s all right.”

Credence lets him go, nods, and collapses on the ground, flat on his ass, his knees shaking. He hates apparition. It always makes him feel wrong, like his insides have turned themselves inside out. 

“Are you all right?” Percival asks, standing above him, hands inside the pockets of his coat. He laughs, and it warms Credence’s ears to hear it. Credence nods, watching as Percival starts to walk away with measured steps across the ice, leaning on his cane on every fifth step, getting smaller and smaller the further afield he is. 

Percival makes a gesture with his hand and Credence is gently lifted to his feet, lassoed towards him, stumbling like a newborn colt. Percival grabs hold of him — _easily_ — by the waist to steady him on his feet though Credence lands with a surprised thump and a yelp against his chest, nearly knocking him on the ground. His legs are shaky when he stands to his full height, nose to nose with Percival. He glances down at his feet to see tiny cracks spidering the ice. 

Credence blinks. 

There’s snow in his eyes, clumping his eyelashes together. He blinks again and Percival starts to brush snow from his face. He pushes Credence’s hair back with a gloved hand, the leather cool against Credence’s cheek. 

“Your hair has grown again,” he says, very softly, not breaking his gaze. “You could drown a man in it, how long it’s gotten.” 

And Credence’s heart, it does a strange heavy thing. It’s familiar, almost, the way his pulse skips, the warmth behind his eyelids. He wants to be pulled forward, to lean close until Percival’s breath heats his face. He can feel his insides trembling, the wait just about killing him. 

Credence wants Percival to kiss him; it didn’t matter where: his mouth, his neck, his face. He’s been waiting for it, forgetting how to breathe, a low ache in his belly, under his ribs. 

“I remember you, all those years ago, a little boy. Afraid,” Percival begins.

“I’m not that boy anymore,” Credence tells him. 

“Aren’t you though?” Percival says, and he looks at Credence for a long time before letting him go again. 

*

They apparate back to the estate, appearing in the courtyard, both covered in snow. Percival storms up the front steps, the yorkshire stone crumbling under his shoes. His dress robes drag mud and slush. Tense, if the line of his shoulders are any indication. Though he never falters a step.

“You must know,” Credence says, before Percival can make the door. It stops him before he can take another step. “You must know that I — that I’ve loved you.” Percival stiffens. “ _Ever since._ ”

Percival says nothing. He doesn’t look at Credence, he doesn’t move; his fists closed at his sides. “You’re young,” he says, finally, “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Credence.”

“But I do!” Credence shouts hoarsely. He thumps his chest, a fist curled over his heart. He feels angry now, sick with the depth of it. Helpless to stop the tide of emotion threatening to consume him. “I do, Percival. I love you.” He says it more softly now, like a prayer, full of conviction, letting the truth of it wash over him. “I loved you, when I was seventeen and you taught me how to dance. I loved you when you went away for four years. And I love you, still.” He shrugs, a harsh laugh escaping him, his breath condensing the air. He can feel his eyes seeping with warmth. He rubs frantically at his face, angry at himself, his weakness. He starts to cry. 

Credence curls his hands over his eyelids, willing himself to stop. But he can’t. Won’t. Is simply unable to. The tears keep coming, and then his shoulders heave with uncontrollable sobs. He finds himself on his knees, hugging himself, his arms covering his face. He looks up when he hears the crunch of shoes on the snow — Percival walking all the way across the courtyard to pull him upwards into a fierce embrace. 

Credence staggers into him, clumsy with tears, hiccuping into his shoulder and dampening his coat. 

“Stop it,” Percival says, squeezing him, hard, against his chest, folding him into his body, “Credence, you must stop this.” And then he pulls back to cup Credence dearly by the face. “You know I can’t bear it when you cry. Look at me, Credence. Open your eyes.” He presses their foreheads together, his face a blur through Credence’s tears. “I’m not — you’re not supposed to love me.” 

“Give me a reason,” Credence says, a note of challenge in his voice. He lets Percival kiss his eyelid, taken aback by the casualness of the gesture, how easy the action comes to him. 

Percival searches his face, then, looking like he wants to laugh, like it’s the most absurd thing he’s ever heard. “We’re family,” he says. 

“Yes,” Credence agrees, “ _Family_.” He blows out a breath, shaky. “And you came back, in the end, like you promised.”

And Credence, he knows an awful lot about promises; the weight and depth and length of them. He keeps them close.

“I waited for you,” Credence tells him, because some things ought to be said, out loud, in the open, even with snow falling fast on the ground. “I thought you were dead. And then when you came back — it was like you never even left. I thought I’d dreamed it all up.”

“You’re not dreaming,” Percival says, something in his face softening though Credence can’t tell what. 

Credence sniffs, and Percival laughs, miserably, a wet wry sound. “I’m here now,” he says, and kisses Credence’s cheek. “Credence, I’m not going away.” He kisses Credence’s other cheek, before pressing his thumbs, soft, against his jaw, tilting up his face. “Not anymore, not for a long time. I promise you that. _Listen_.”

He kisses Credence on the mouth, slow, without warning. And Credence, his knees shaking, his heart lodged like a stone in his throat, his breath unspooling like threads inside of him, lets himself be kissed.

*

Credence knows how it’s done; he isn’t stupid. He wasn’t born yesterday. 

He’s read a book, once, in the Ilvermorny library, contraband he’d filched from the grubby paws of a wayward third year. There was a word people called those like him, who desired other men to keep them company in their bed. He’d paged through the book and puzzled over its contents, the complication of limbs, and how they all seemed to fit together like keys in a lock.

He’s touched himself, a few other times over the years, once even when Newt had been sleeping across from him in his own bed, Credence facing away and lying on his side, thinking of — of nothing in particular. Images most of the time, disjointed and oblique. He hadn’t known then that what he wanted was Percival, that he preferred dark hair for a reason, and a slightly grim mouth. That the flecks of silver in Percival’s hair would warm him, deep in the marrow of his bones. That the sight of him, leaning over Credence in the dark, an arm braced on the bed, might thrill him. 

Percival doesn’t kiss him again after that night. Credence waits till he does again, bracing himself for the inevitability. But days pass and then life resumes, with its usual comings and goings. In the spring, he writes Newt a letter, apologizing for his lateness at the delivering the foreword. He goes to plan out his writing, sitting in Percival’s study with a quill in hand, looking out the window. 

Bright orange buds have made a sudden appearance in the courtyard now that most of the snow has melted off the ground. The sun is high in the sky, bathing Credence’s corner with light that warms his face. He squints at the window, seeing Percival outside shooting spells at a row of empty bottles poised high in the air. One by one the bottles shatter and then fix themselves, struck by a number of offensive spells. 

The repetition makes Credence’s eyes cross. He pads out the study, his feet warm on the stone terrace, tickled by the newly cut grass. 

Percival turns as he approaches, his sleeves up to his elbows. His hair, just slightly matted with sweat. “Credence,” he says, surprised. He raises an eyebrow. “Where are your shoes?”

Credence shrugs. “Let’s duel,” he says evenly.

“I’ll lose, I know. To you,” Credence says. “But humor me.” His blood thrums, just a little. “If I win, I have a favor to ask of you.”

“And if I win?” Percival says, smile just this side of a smirk.

Credence shucks off his sleeping robe, letting it pool on the ground at his feet. “If you win, you can ask anything of me.” He readies his stance, planting his feet firmly.

“Ready,” Credence says. 

Percival draws out his wand. “On the count of three, then,” he says, with a smile.

*

Percival wins. That shouldn’t be a surprise. The surprise is that the victory takes longer to draw out, that he doesn’t hesitate, or go easy on Credence like Credence is expecting him to — both a disappointment and a thrill, for what Credence has planned.

They’re both breathing heavy by the time it finishes, dripping sweat, Percival clasping Credence’s hand to show him there were no hard feelings. Percival doesn’t see it coming, too at ease after his victory, leaving his stance wide open and vulnerable, but Credence fists a hand in his shirt, knocking his ankle with his foot and dragging him down on the grass with him — and Percival, he tumbles down with a startled yelp. 

Percival groans as Credence climbs on top of him, leaning over, braced against one arm. The smell of grass and growing things, strong this close to the ground, but it’s Percival’s familiar warmth that calls to him, making his lungs fill with a pressing ache. 

Sweat beads Percival’s brow, pasting the collar of his shirt to his throat. He’s watching Credence carefully, his breathing even, eyes half-lidded.

“You’re learning,” Percival says, sounding proud, lifting a hand to twine in Credence’s hair. He tugs on the leather cord binding Credence’s hair captive, Credence’s curls tumbling free, an avalanche on his face, sweeping his eyes. Credence has never been vain, but he likes the way Percival looks at him when he wears his hair long enough to reach his shoulders. He likes his fingers, sifting through the strands of his hair.

Credence leans into his touch, swallowing against the thumb Percival presses to his throat, just a sweep of a finger. 

“A student is only as good as their teacher,” Credence says to him.

Percival laughs. He tilts his chin up and then kisses Credence, and this time Credence is expecting it. He takes the kiss, falling into it like stone into water, and when Percival goes to pull away, Credence doesn’t let him.

*

Ulfius pays them a visit, a few days before Percival is to be reinstated as Director, to give his brother a piece of advice over lunch. “Keep your will steadfast,” he says, “And a bottle of gin in your cupboard.” He stays longer than he often does, indulging Credence a bit with a game of chess, keeping him company that evening while Percival floos to the office to attend a last-minute debrief. 

Picquery is making an occasion of it, orchestrating his return, preparing a speech and a dinner. She’s gearing up for a second term, to which Ulfius throws his hands up and remarks, “Bah! Let her have it! Democracy can —” Then he glances at Credence, running his thumb thoughtfully over the loose seam of his dress robe, staring into the fire.

Credence doesn’t see his eyes softening. “He won’t be back until late,” Ulfius tells him.

Credence glances at him sharply, confused. “Percival,” Ulfius says. “He’ll most likely be back after dinner.”

“I’m not — _waiting_ ,” Credence says carefully, the first lie he’s told in months.

“I may not be your real father Credence, but I’m still your guardian. I know everything you try to hide.” Ulfius sighs when Credence continues to look at him, flabbergasted. “I’ve seen the way my brother looks at you. More importantly, I’ve seen the way you look at him. I was not born yesterday. No need to look so shocked, my boy.” 

“I don’t know what you mean,” Credence says. He stops breathing, and he wants to deny it but he’s always been a bad liar; even his Ma had said so, washing his mouth out with soap for the blasphemy that left his lips.

“The old ways are good for those who strive to keep tradition. And I find — tradition rather dull and boring as of late.” He smiles, lopsided, the lines in his face belying his age. He looks tired more than anything. He steeples his hands in front of his face. “I always knew keeping you with liven up the household. I just never expected how.”

*

 

Credence climbs into Percival’s bed. Percival wakes as soon as he hears Credence at the door, always alert now, keeping vigilant, but he doesn’t stir, keeping himself still as Credence wends his way to the bed, moonlight sifting through the curtains lighting his way. His feet thump softly on the floor. He kneels on the bed, watching Percival watch him quietly in the dark. 

Credence unbuttons his shirt, but Percival’s hand stops him as he sits up. “What are you doing?” Percival’s hand circles his wrist.

“What does it look like?” Credence says. His neck feels hot, the whole of his body, hot down to his bones. He’s been thinking about it for days — _weeks_ , wondering what it would feel like to have Percival’s hands on him, wondering if his teeth would leave bruises on the inside of his thighs. He’s spent himself a few times in sleep, rubbing himself against the covers, saying Percival’s name in the dark. They’ve done no more than kissing, embracing; Percival has kept him at arm’s length. 

“You’re always afraid you might break me,” Credence says to him. “I can take it. Whatever you give, I can take.” 

“Credence,” Percival says, his voice strained. He doesn’t let Credence’s wrist go, his grip tight like a noose. “Please. I am not made of stone. When you say things like that—”

Credence throws his arms around Percival’s shoulders. Percival startles, but he recovers and kisses Credence swiftly on the mouth, rolling him onto his back underneath him so he could unbutton the rest of his shirt. He peels it away slowly, revealing him like a gift, lowering his face to take a stiff nipple into his mouth and suckle greedily, leaving marks.

“Percival,” Credence sighs, gripping his head. “Percival, Percival.”

He breathes when Percival cups the side of his face. “You’re beautiful,” Percival tells him. He sounds conflicted even as he says it, hesitating before he kisses Credence on the lips and undoes the front laces of Credence’s pants. When he undresses himself, Credence helps him, his hands shaking as he pushes Percival’s clothes off his shoulders, tugging at his pants so that his cock springs free. 

Credence looks at it, hard and wet at the tip, curving against Percival’s stomach. Gluttony, he thinks, distantly. Greed. All the things his Ma had ever accused him of, and she’d been right all along. He wants to put his mouth on Percival, taste him on his tongue, but doesn’t know how to ask for it, or whether or not he can. He looks up at Percival, the strong lines of his body, the hard, unyielding planes of him, and is rewarded by a deep kiss that stops his breath.

Percival lies on top of him, between his spread thighs, and rubs his cock against his hip, hard and insistent, leaving a wet smear in its wake. Credence trembles underneath him, bucking up, gasping like fish, wanting more and more until he can’t stop himself from asking for it. 

“Tell me what you want,” Percival whispers. “What do you want, Credence?”

“Your cock,” Credence says, his voice rough and unrecognizable. He can feel Percival with every bob of his throat. “In my mouth,” he says. Then he remembers the book, the moving pictures, the press of bodies that made his blood stir. “Then I want you to — in me,” he says, flushing. “I want you to — to take me.”

“Have you ever — with anybody?” Percival says, looking at him carefully.

Credence shakes his head. “There’s been no one.”

“No one?” Percival repeats.

Credence lets Percival grasp his face as he kisses him, his eyelids, lingering, then his throat. He sighs when Percival rubs a thumb over the dip in his chest, tracing a slow path down to his bellybutton. His stomach judders under his touch. “I trust you with this. I trust you with my life,” Credence says.

*

“Easy now,” Percival says, “Take your time.” He sounds like he’s soothing a gelding, sliding his hand through Credence’s hair as he lowers him down his body, guiding him to his lap. Credence rubs his cheek against the coarse hair covering Percival’s inner thigh, the whorls scratching his cheek, a pleasant itch. 

Percival is big, the veins in his cock angry, the tip flushed, beading at the slit; it’ll be hard going getting it all to fit in his mouth but Credence wants him, everywhere, upon him — not just his mouth, but later inside him too, to tuck and press inside his body so he’ll never know what it’s like to be empty again. 

He seeks him out with his mouth, and startles at the salty, slippery taste. Credence rolls his tongue behind his teeth, dips his head again, wraps his mouth around the head of Percival’s cock, curling a hand, wet with spit, around the length that he can’t swallow. He looks up through the hair in his eyes and sees Percival watching him, mouth opening and closing soundlessly, a fist clenched at his side. His other hand he wends up Credence’s shoulder, his neck, before tugging lightly on his hair, still afraid to hurt him. 

“Credence,” he says, voice ragged. “Darling, you’re beautiful.”

Then he arches against Credence, his hips jolting when Credence attempts to swallow him whole — he can’t, at least not yet, and his eyes water as he gags, choking, pulling off with a pop. He tries again, bobbing his head, letting his throat loosen, but there’s too much of Percival, and his jaw aches before long trying to get all of him inside his mouth, trying to swallow him down. He wants to like it but he isn’t sure what he likes more, the taste and weight of Percival on his tongue, or the way Percival’s body responds to him, his hips thrusting in jerky bursts, fucking Credence’s mouth but still holding back. It makes him feel powerful.

Credence is hard from sucking him, his own cock heavy and neglected between his thighs. He rubs it absently against the covers, rutting lazily until he leaves damp traces on the sheets, whimpering as Percival pivots his hips and pushes himself off the bed, coaxing his mouth wider, open. Percival taps him on the shoulder with a low groan, and Credence looks up, with his mouth full of Percival, with Percival’s pre-spend coating his left cheek where his cock has brushed against on more than one occasion. 

“Come up here,” Percival beckons. “I’ll come if you keep at it. Then I won’t be able to —” He gives Credence a biting kiss as soon as Credence climbs on top of him. He settles Credence in his lap, over his hips so Credence can feel his hot prick pressing against his ass, rubbing hotly against the seam of it, spreading him as Credence squirms and bucks.

Credence would be terrified, if he didn’t want this so much, if Percival wasn’t kissing him over and over and leaving marks all over his throat in the shape of teeth, grinding his hips and clutching Credence’s waist, calling him beautiful, darling, his little sweetheart. He feels — unmoored, like his heart is on a precipice, empty were it not for Percival holding his hand and kissing him still. 

Percival guides Credence on his back, lets Credence lie there, gasping like a drowning man, and spreads his thighs open with his hands, tells him to lift his knees. Credence’s toes curl in shyness but he obeys, because he can never say no to him, not even if he wanted to, a habit wanting to please Percival at all times, to win his favor. 

His stomach ties itself in knots when Percival has a good look at him, his eyes dark with lust as he presses his mouth to Credence’s hole. Credence shouts at the first touch of tongue, and then he whimpers, digging his nails into the skin under his knees as he holds himself in place, folded in two, letting Percival have it. 

Percival follows the tender press of his mouth with a finger, worming it inside, slick with oil he conjures with a wave of the hand. He bites Credence’s thigh, working a hand on Credence’s cock, thrusting his whole finger in before following it with another, then a third, more insistent, rubbing an ache Credence didn’t know he had, making his cock spit and leak all over his stomach. 

He’s sobbing with need, arm flung over his face, jerking with every thrust of Percival’s hand, crying out for something he doesn’t have the name for when Percival stops without warning, his hand loose around Credence’s cock, his fingers pressed deep inside him. 

Credence’s breath slows, and he glances down, his cock and hole aching, waiting for Percival’s touch. He feels heady, not like himself, his skin prickling everywhere. 

“Don’t hide your face from me,” Percival says, his voice low, raspy. “I want to see it, Credence. Let me see your face.”

Credence wets his lower lip before nodding, and lets his arm fall to his side as he fists the sheets. 

“Do you like it?” Percival asks him, kneeling now between Credence’s spread legs. “My fingers inside you? My hand on your cock?”

“Yes — yes I —” He keens when Percival starts to move again, hard rough flicks of his wrist. He’s going to come, he’s going to — he whines when Percival lets go of him, his fingers slipping out, leaving Credence’s body furling like a fist, seeking his warmth. Credence scrabbles for him desperately, grabbing him by the waist, pulling him on top of him, but Percival just laughs and squeezes his hip, kissing him soundly before he kneels on his haunches and takes his cock in hand. He slicks himself up with oil, groaning at his own touch. 

Credence wants to put his mouth on him again,but knows enough that he’ll like what’s coming next just as much. He braces himself against the sheets, wills his body to relax. “You need to tell me if I’m hurting you,” Percival says. “Promise me, Credence. You’ll do that for me, won’t you?”

Credence nods. He spreads his legs at Percival’s prompting and watches as Percival teases his twitching hole open, rubbing the tip of his cock against he seam of his ass before pressing the head to Credence’s opening. It’s a tight fit, and it takes Credence more than few minutes to acclimate to Percival’s size, his breath tight in his chest, his thighs tense, his toes curled as Percival leans forward, bracing his weight on his arms, before pushing in, inch by agonizing inch.

He’s too big, and Credence wants to push him off, but he can’t say that now, though his eyes sting with tears. He’s waited so long for this; he’s waited even longer for Percival. 

He feels Percival’s lips on his face, his fingers sweeping over Credence’s closed eyelids. “Am I hurting you?” he asks, making a move to pull away. 

“ _No_ ,” Credence lies. “No, please, don’t go. Stay with me.” He wraps his arms around Percival’s shoulders and tries to breathe. Percival doesn’t move, not for a long while, and then when Credence turns his face up to kiss him, he kisses back slowly, carding his fingers through Credence’s hair and starting to move his hips. 

Credence whimpers, the first few times, but steels himself, letting Percival stroke his cock in time with his thrusts and bury his face in his throat, groaning, the sound Credence could hear echoing inside his own chest. 

Eventually, something changes, maybe in the way Percival angles his hips, or the way he circles Credence’s cock, because then it starts to feel good, no longer a flaring ache, but a deep throb inside him, cresting each time Percival pistons his hips. He cries out when Percival gives a hard thrust, rough enough to make the bed creak and make something in his blood turn red hot. 

Percival does it again, and again, and again, letting go of his cock, moving to grasp Credence by the ankles and spread him, shameless, a creature of pure need, a vessel wanting to be filled. The noises he makes are rough and ugly, his breath getting choppier and choppier each time Percival takes him. He’s loud enough to wake the dead, biting into the skin of his own arm, leaving a painful mark, listening to the wet pound of their bodies meeting every time, skin slick with sweat.

Credence comes as soon as Percival spills inside him, a blinding rush that leaves sunspots dancing in his vision. His thighs ache when he comes to, as Percival rolls onto his side of the bed, breathing hard, his hair out of its neat part, covering his eye. It’s still dark, outside, like no time has passed at all. The rest of the house is still and quiet. 

“Did I hurt you?” Percival asks, in the dark, not moving, and then reaching out to squeeze Credence’s hand.

“I feel wet,” Credence tells him. He squirms as he pushes out a slick of come that coats the insides of his thighs. 

Percival laughs before kissing him.

*

In bed, Percival has his arm curled around Credence’s neck, Credence’s head on his chest. He tells him of the dream he had, locked away in that trunk, a year ago or more. He thought himself dead, lying in nothing but darkness, buried alive. His hand pushing outward, trying to break the surface. And then he heard Credence’s voice — somewhere at the edge of his periphery, cutting through the silence. He started to dig himself out.

“Why am I telling you this?” Percival says, a catch in his throat.

“Because somebody needs to know all your stories,” Credence says.

Percival looks surprised, letting out a short laugh. “Do I know all of yours?” he says. 

“No,” Credence says. “Not yet. Soon, maybe.”

“Soon,” Percival says. He presses a kiss to Credence’s temple. 

*

This summer is the hottest one yet, the ground baking under their feet, waves of heat rising from it in shimmers, the grass curling, turning a pale brown. When it tapers, Percival takes his old boat down to the dock, restored by magic, the paint brand new and the bottom boards replaced with sturdier planks. He throws aside the burlap tarp covering it, pulling out the oars, inspecting the hull for scratches, humming his approval when he sees none, giving the wood a gentle pat. 

It’s his father’s old boat, mended throughout the years. It hasn’t been used in a while, and needed a little airing.

Percival beckons Credence over when he sees Credence watching him from the shore, writing the foreword he’d promised Newt for his book, lying on the soft grass on his stomach. He’s only just added the finishing touches, letting Percival read through the piece for a second opinion. He sets his writing aside and joins Percival on the dock, Percival hoisting him by the waist even though Credence can climb inside the boat himself.

The sun has started to set, there over the hill, behind the greenhouse, dusk spreading its soft hues. Percival steers the boat by magic, lazily curling his hand in the air, his other arm pillowed behind Credence’s head as Credence tries not to fall asleep, tucked against Percival’s side. The water is still and calm, and Credence can hear every creak the planks make, every sigh that escapes Percival’s mouth, every thud of his heart. 

Percival turns to him, sweeps his hair aside and kisses his neck, pressing his nose to the soft skin under Credence’s ear. He tugs at the ribbon cinching Credence’s hair, pausing when Credence gives him a sullen look. 

“It’s hot,” Credence complains, but he lets Percival do it away, tugging the ribbon free before nosing the side of his face, running his fingers through the curl of Credence’s hair before burying his face with a noseful of it, laughing, low, against his neck.

Credence shivers, fisting a hand into Percival’s shirt, neither pushing nor pulling. Somewhere above, a bird soars over them. He watches it dart past and turns his gaze back to Percival, looking at him now with a soft smile marring his grim mouth. 

“One day,” Percival says to him. “I’ll tell you everything. The stories you want to hear from me. I still have a few, left to tell.”

“I read a story, once,” Credence says. “When I was little. About the knight you were named after.”

Percival listens, rapt in attention, eyes alight. “Percival, the brave. The one most kindly. The one most true.”

Percival says nothing, eyes half-closed now, smiling with just one side of his mouth. He’s smirking, amused, the scoundrel. “Was it to your liking?”

Credence shrugs. He fiddles with the buttons of Percival’s shirt, sighing. His cheeks flush; he doesn’t look up at Percival’s face, embarrassed in spite of the myriad things he lets Percival do, get away with. “What use do I have of stories?” he says, “When I have the real Percival next to me?”

“Brave, then, you said,” says Percival, taking his hand and kissing each finger with every word. “Kindly,” he says. A kiss. “Most true.”

“Yes,” Credence says. “Yes.” He laughs and laughs when Percival starts to tease him, tickling him under the arms, the boat rocking dangerously, wobbling, nearly careening to the side. They’re saved by Percival’s magic, keeping the boat from tipping over and drowning them.

Later, they head back to shore at the first touch of dark but not before Percival starts undressing Credence, there, on the shoreline. He presses Credence down, bodily against the soft swaying grass, making love to him under a sky beginning to bruise. He makes a home for himself inside Credence’s body, leaving a mark, so that when he leaves in the morning for work, Credence can still feel the lingering ache of him, deep within his blood, deep within his bones where he will carry it with him, now, and for the rest of life.

 


End file.
